


The Mind Compass

by vivi1138



Series: The Parselmage [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Ancient History, Archaeology, Curse Breaking, Don't add to Goodreads, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Artifacts, Masturbation, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, Not Abandoned, Post-Hogwarts, Rimming, Slow To Update, World Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:54:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24128497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivi1138/pseuds/vivi1138
Summary: Eleven years after the war, Harry and Draco decide to enact their masterplan and travel the world. They're only starting when they discover a broken piece of metal that will send them on the adventure of a lifetime. It's a race against time between arid deserts and jungles, the perfect setting for a new chapter in their friendship.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: The Parselmage [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1734154
Comments: 29
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't forget to read the [Prologue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24039613)! This fic won't make much sense without it. I'm very excited to bring this story to life and I hope you'll enjoy the ride!
> 
> \-----  
> Thanks a lot to [Mjabbers](https://mjabbers.tumblr.com/) for being my beta for this chapter!  
> \-----  
>  _Disclaimer: I own nothing but the idea behind this fic and the few original characters. The rest belongs to J.K.Rowling._

_Malfoy,_

_I’m sitting in bed and wondering what you’ve been up to. I have exams to grade. I should get to it, but they’re boring, and I feel like my brain is melting from some of those. Imagine having to read one of Hermione’s essays, then immediately after, one of Goyle’s. It’s a rollercoaster. And you probably have no idea what that is, and it’s fine. Just look it up._

_Two years ago, I went back down the Chamber with Kreacher, and he cleaned it up. He went on and on about what an honour this was, and he spends a lot of time there even now, so I hope he’s not trying to breed another Basilisk. Anyway, I found a smaller frame that Slytherin can visit and put it in my quarters, and he was a bit put out because I made him wait. He asked about you._

_He also told me more about his family and taught me different aspects of Parselmagic. It can be used a bit like Divination, except it only shows the future and past if you’re a Seer. Obviously, I’m not. So I can see the present. If I say the right words, I can discover stuff that has been buried. I’m a snake-speaking treasure detector. I wonder if it works on lost socks._

_I got a new pet. It’s the runt of an Ashwinder clutch, and Hagrid let me have him. You probably don’t care, but his name is Noodle._

_I guess I’m just bored and curious about you. I’ve only heard your name again when your mum opened that museum and your dad’s sentence ended._

_So what I’m asking is, how are you?_

_Harry Potter_

#

_Golden Boy,_

_Took you long enough. I’d begun to think you’d grown comfortable in your tower, but what’s that, Potty, you don’t like grading papers anymore? Astonishing. Nevertheless, I’m thrilled that you remember my existence and our foray into the depths of Hogwarts._

_Now that you’ve unlocked yet another one of your many talents, may I ask if you are still interested in travelling? It was such a let down when you chose to teach instead, and you see, I may have used those long and lonely years to gain useful skills of my own. I would very much appreciate joining forces; I am, after all, a certified magical archaeologist who dearly wishes to extend his digging opportunities. My past deeds have so far prevented me from finding my place in international expeditions._

_If you are willing, I suggest we meet for tea once the school year ends. Please bring Slytherin; a travel-frame should be good enough._

_And don’t wait a whole decade to contact me again! Imbecile._

_With all my spite,_

_D.L.Malfoy_

_P.S: I do know what a rollercoaster is, thank you._

_P.P.S.: of course, you named your snake Noodle. Why am I surprised?_

#

_Lut desert, Iran, October 2009_

“FUCK!”

Startled, Harry groaned in discomfort as his back protested last night’s choice of mattress. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, then slid his hand under his pillow to grab his wand. Outside the tent, rapid footsteps accompanied more expletives, and all Harry could think of, was that it was too early to deal with Draco’s sour mood. A quick spell removed the sand from his sleeping bag and the smears from his glasses, and a silent _Aguamenti_ took care of his thirst. He then attempted to stand up and winced at the dull pain in his hips. He ruffled through his bag to find a kaftan, selecting a white one to fight the heat of the desert. A few more spells and he was clean, even if magic couldn’t replace a shower. After getting dressed, he rummaged through Draco’s belongings, still looking for his lost sock. This fruitless endeavour had caused a fight the previous evening (Parselmagic did not, in fact, help in finding errant pieces of clothing).

Things had been somewhat tense since the purchase of their new tent. They’d been lucky to manage to summon their equipment before it got lost forever, but their previous accommodation got swallowed and torn to shreds by a sandstorm. They should’ve chosen a better one after that loss, but it would’ve required a trip to the wizarding district of Isfahan and Harry didn’t want to spend two whole days Apparating all over the country. With the regulations in place and the few approved itineraries for magicians, he’d rather sleep outside for a week. So, they’d headed to a Muggle shop in Kerman, then made a few adjustments so the tent would be cosier once they were out in the desert again. Needless to say, Draco Malfoy, born in the lap of luxury, did not appreciate the downgrade. Speaking of Draco, it was time to face the music.

Harry unzipped the tent and immediately cast a cooling charm on himself. Leaving the vicinity of the magical temperature regulator they’d brought with them was always a shock. He found Draco at the mouth of the canyon they’d slept in, casting spells at the sand. “What are you doing?”

It seemed like Draco was not, in fact, in a bad mood, or resenting him for the sock and the tent. His soft smile as he turned around, melted Harry’s insides in a way that had become quite familiar. “Good morning. Will you please help me with this thing?”

Oh. So that’s what the smile meant. Harry should’ve known better. Reading Draco’s often ambiguous behaviour hadn’t become any easier in the few months since they’d exchanged letters. However, so far, Harry still thought he knew him well, from years of observation. It didn’t mean he didn’t read his mood wrong, though. Draco wasn’t sweet, or soft, or anything of the sort in the morning. Harry looked at the spot Draco was pointing at and understood instantly, suppressing a full-body shudder at the sight of the giant camel spider that appeared to be obsessed with Draco’s shoes. Dealing with creatures hadn’t been Draco’s strong suit since they’d left England; his charms rarely managed to keep bugs out, and his magic attracted all kinds of strange, many-legged creatures.

“ _Repello Solifugae_.” The spider scampered, and Harry squeezed Draco’s hand. “You do remember they’re harmless, right?”

“Oh, of course. Next time I see one in the toolbox, I’ll just leave it there for you to find.” He walked back to the firepit and grabbed two plates, filling them with freshly baked flatbreads.

Harry noticed that his flatbreads were either undercooked or slightly charred, but he didn’t mind. When distraction struck, Draco’s cooking skills took a deep dive, and Harry knew better than to comment on them. Draco’s pride didn’t need any more wounds.

Harry lathered a piece of bread with his favourite jam and ate quietly, glancing at his friend until his shoulders sagged, indicating a better mood. Food always helped. And because Harry also knew some tricks to deal with him, he served him a cup of tea, just how Draco liked it. It worked.

“Alright,” Draco said, indicating the end of his fragile post-rant state and making Harry cheer internally. He leaned back and summoned the map. “I want to check that rock again.”

Harry glanced at the area he pointed at. This desert, like many others, hid the traces of old magical villages or cities—ruins invisible to Muggles and often undiscovered by modern witches and wizards. The world was too vast; there were few magical beings around, even less with the required qualifications. Archaeology in their world uncovered secrets at a snail’s pace compared to the Muggle world, even with the different spells that should’ve made the process easier and faster. The study itself wasn’t popular. The lack of a museum dedicated to magical history spoke for itself. Instead, the nations under the International Confederation of Wizards formed Unspeakables—too busy with other matters, like the mysteries of magic itself—or Curse-Breakers, whose job was more about disabling traps than finding broken pieces of antique pottery. Those who wanted to get involved in archaeology went to Muggle universities and usually worked in the Muggle world afterwards.

Harry didn’t have a Muggle degree and he certainly didn’t earn any Mastery that would grant him a chance to go near the Department of Mysteries. It would’ve required studying. The thought of putting any effort into writing essays and doing endless research made Harry shudder. He preferred action, thank you very much.

After getting out of the Chamber of Secrets during their eighth year and having to defend Draco—who almost got sent to Azkaban for kidnapping—, Harry had lost any interest he’d ever had in becoming an Auror. He’d stayed in school to be with his friends and avoid Hermione’s wrath, and he’d hung out with Draco, to everyone’s shock. A little over a year later, Harry and Draco had repaired and purged Grimmauld Place, and Harry had accepted McGonagall’s offer to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts. He’d needed something to focus on, even after his eighth year when it seemed like everyone else had recovered and had their lives all planned out.

He’d taught students for a decade. Quite a long time for someone who said teaching wasn’t his calling, but he’d needed that time to heal and grieve. After a few years, he’d rediscovered the hidden part of the Chamber of Secrets.

He could’ve left it at that. Could’ve discarded the idea that had sprouted in his brain after hearing his family history—after learning that he owed his olive skin tone and unruly hair to ancestors who’d dwelt far from England. He’d almost done it; he’d nearly forgotten his plans. But he didn’t, not entirely.

After a long-overdue exchange of brief letters a few months ago, Draco had travelled to Hogwarts, knocked on the door to Harry’s office, ordered him to pack, and they’d left for Turkey. There, Harry swam in the sea for the first time, ate incredible food he’d never even heard of before and enjoyed the luxury of the resort Malfoy had booked. His skin darkened, revealing freckles he must’ve gotten from his mother, and he’d felt free and happy. And if Malfoy’s bursts of laughter and carefree, yet still rare smile were anything to go by, he, too, thought travelling was a brilliant idea. But a resort and spending money weren’t what Draco had studied for, and he’d astonished Harry when he’d been the first to mention it. They’d bought the tent the next day and headed straight for the Taurus Mountains.

It had taken them a month to find a magical artefact, out of the blue, but it was enough to convince them to keep up with their plan. Rogue archaeologists, unwelcome on dig sites, sneered at by academics—none of that mattered. They took a Portkey to Iran next, just because they could, and they’d been there long enough now that they already planned their next stop. Perhaps Egypt or Jordan. Though, right now, the rock Malfoy had noticed was a more immediate concern.

With the map in mind, Harry flicked his wand to pack up the spider-free toolkit and finished his tea. He cleaned up and extinguished the fire while Draco disabled the wards and Muggle-repelling charms around the tent. One spell later and their rudimentary habitat was gone, tightly packed in Malfoy’s resized bag. Harry grabbed his backpack, lightened it with a quick charm and made sure Slytherin’s portrait and Noodle were comfortable—Noodle slithered up his arm, hissing in bliss at the heat and confirming that all was well. If a sandstorm found its way through the canyon, at least they’d only lose a cheap Muggle tent and not any of their possessions and friends. They’d been lucky to save them the other day.

“ _Has the shiny one ssstopped ssscreaming?”_

Harry snorted at the nickname and scratched Noodle’s head. “ _Yes, I’m sorry if he scared you.”_

“ _Not ssscared.”_

“ _Of course not.”_

“Okay, no consorting in Parseltongue, you two,” Draco yelled, already ahead of them. “Or three, if Sal is listening. We have a rock to examine.”

Apparition in a desert wasn’t recommended since the landscape could change with the wind, and many canyons and rock formations looked similar. With a Disillusionment Charm hiding them from prying eyes, they used brooms—Firebolts—and flew low and slow above the sand, retracing their steps to the west. Harry grinned at Noodle’s excited hissing and sped up, winking at Malfoy who didn’t resist and caught up with him. They still had to be careful not to be seen, but the desert offered them the luxury of a gigantic playground with hardly any risk of revealing themselves to Muggles. By the time they could see the mountain range separating them from the city of Kerman, their enchanted map buzzed in Harry’s pocket. They landed in the shade of a large boulder eroded by sand, wind and time, and Harry looked around, spotting Kaluts of all shapes and sizes and deciding to let Malfoy explore. It didn’t take long.

“Hah!” The Slytherin pointed at a smooth rock barely reaching his waist, walking around it with his lip between his teeth, in that cute way that Harry secretly enjoyed.

Merlin, but finding Malfoy attractive would be his downfall. Since his Big Gay Awakening (courtesy of the portrait he now carried with him), Harry’s mind had focused on two types of people: dark and mysterious—reminding him, to his everlasting shame, that maybe, just maybe, he’d harboured an inappropriate crush on his godfather—and pale, blonde and mouthy. He blinked, coughed and crossed his arms, acting as if he hadn’t been staring. “That’s the one?”

“Yes. There’s something there.” He brought a hand close to its surface, not quite touching it. “The air vibrates. Why are you standing back there?”

Harry pushed himself away from his shelter and approached him. “Letting you take the curse in the face if something happens?”

“So much for the great hero.” Malfoy’s observations continued while Noodle dozed off around Harry’s neck. He wove layers of Muggle-repelling charms around the area and hit the rock with several detection spells “Alright, Golden Boy, your turn. I have no idea why it’s doing that. It’s just a rock.”

Harry had trained for that. The discovery of the enchanted ring they’d found in Turkey hadn’t required much Parselmagic, since locating charms, tuned to magical objects, had done the trick; he almost bounced in excitement before concentrating on the first chant.

Word after word let him peek through the surface of the rock, deeper with each sentence. It was like peeling an onion. Veins of minerals formed complex, shiny pathways, taking over Harry’s field of vision as his mind dove into the darkness. Then the mineral trails vanished, and he felt like falling. His eyes sprung open, and he squinted at the sunlight. His heart was beating faster and his cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

“It’s not the rock, Malfoy.” He took a few steps around it, then peered at his confused companion from the opposite side. “There’s something beneath.”

“Stand aside, then. Blasting curse?”

“Do you want to get in trouble?” Harry said, amused. “ _Wingardium Leviosa_!” He could bet that if Slytherin’s portrait were listening, he’d scream in horror at the nonsensical terms. The painting was sensible to butchered Latin.

The rock moved, but not enough, so Malfoy cast the same spell and held it. They were both powerful wizards, so the strain on their magical core was minimal. Once the cloud of dust had dissipated, Harry kneeled and stared at the uneven hole, just wide enough to fit a human being.

“ _Lumos Maxima_.” Malfoy’s wand showed a depth that didn’t scare Harry in the slightest. “Potty, if you can’t get back out, I’m leaving you here.”

Harry sat down and scooted closer to the hole until his legs dangled in the void, then placed Noodle on the sand and told him to stay there to keep him safe. He met Malfoy’s grey gaze and blew him a playful kiss before dropping to the floor below.

“You didn’t cast any detection charm, Scarhead!” the other man yelled.

Alright, that was stupid of him. He stared up at Malfoy, whose white-blond hair formed a halo around his head with the sun shining behind him. His attraction for him worsened, and he pushed it aside to make sure he wasn’t walking into a trap. Salazar’s portrait had taught him enough to protect himself, and his career at Hogwarts helped him daily. Designing and teaching a brand-new curriculum destined to do more than bring students through exams? A breath of fresh air. Harry’s students were already competent in Defence by the time they reached their O.W.L.s. His lesson plans included bits and pieces from Auror training material; detecting danger was now second-nature to him. It played a significant role for his third-year students, so if he got taken out by a trap because he was too busy flirting with Malfoy, he’d deserve the humiliation.

He could hear Malfoy muttering about brash Gryffindors, so after a few spells cast in quick succession, he told him there was nothing down there aside from a pulse of neutral magic. Malfoy sent floating lights his way, and they scattered to illuminate a wider area. Harry noticed a short tunnel to the right and could see the end of it. Instead of acting rash and walking straight in there without thinking, he closed his eyes and chanted, welcoming the familiar darkness in his head. He found a soft glow at the back of the tunnel, matching the magical signature his spells had detected.

“Whatever this is, don’t touch it.” Malfoy’s voice carried through the tunnel.

Harry kept hissing so the glow wouldn’t disappear. When he stood close enough, he let his vision return and sent short blasts of air to dislodge the sand and rocks at his feet. The air dug a small hole until it reached what Harry could only describe as an invisible shield protecting a jagged piece of metal. When levitated, the protective bubble didn’t burst into flames or change the nature of its magic, but Harry kept his distance despite his interest, slowly backing out of the tunnel. He wanted to know what that thing was and could barely contain himself.

“Malfoy, get ready to catch something,” he yelled as he sent the object flying above his head.

“I have it. Come up; there’s a car coming.”

Helped by another levitating spell cast on his own feet, he grabbed the edge of the hole and hoisted himself up. Malfoy trapped the piece of metal in an enlarged box, heavily warded by none other than Bill Weasley, and Harry brushed away the dust and sand off his kaftan, deeming the car far enough for now. Their various charms still protected them, but they shouldn’t linger for too long. One of the passengers might be a wizard.

“ _Sssmellsss ssstrange,”_ said Noodle, climbing Harry’s leg.

“ _Bad strange_?”

“ _Old ssstrange_.”

Noodle was quite good at detecting malevolence, so Harry felt reassured, even if the way the hole was hidden brought up a variety of terrifying scenarios.

With the box tucked away, Draco helped him place the rock back in its original position, and they flew away as soon as Harry erased all traces of their spells. Despite the complete separation of the magical and Muggle governments, they didn’t want to cause trouble in a country where the Statute of Secrecy was taken to an extreme that made Britain look like a playground. They both had enough experience with politicians attempting to screw them over; they didn’t need to create new problems for themselves around the world.

Unfortunately for Draco, the camel spider lurked near the entrance of their canyon, making him yelp and curse and climb back on his broom to keep his feet off the ground.

“If those things can detect magic, I should get one as a pet,” Harry said lightly, guiding the creepy creature away with a spell.

Draco landed beyond the weave of charms protecting their tent. “Potter, I’ll strangle you in your sleep.”

Laughing, Harry opened his backpack and reached for the temperature regulator.

“Ah, bliss!” Sitting in the shade, Malfoy rested his head against the wall of the canyon and pointed his wand at the sky, conjuring a parasol. “Next time, shall we head to Antarctica?”

“You’re the one who chose Turkey.”

“There was snow in those mountains.”

“And the resort?”

“Did you forget the pool, Potter? It was glorious.”

Harry smirked and shook his head. He knew that Draco didn’t mean it; he might not enjoy the heat, but he loved the desert and its otherworldly wonders. He’d fallen in love with it when a curious fennec fox sniffed around their tent, before the sandstorm.

Noodle found a ray of sunlight to bask in. Harry observed the metal piece in the box, now open on the ground. “So. Any idea?” he asked.

Malfoy looked at it closely, his lips pinched in a thin line. He confirmed the presence of engravings, while Harry drew the piece in a notebook. “I’m not sure. Sumerian, maybe, but there are too many languages derived from it. It could be more recent. Old Persian would make sense.”

“Can you date it?” That would at least help them figure out which language it could be, but Malfoy’s dating spell failed. Harry sighed; the signs reminded him of Roman numbers but were still clearly different, and he wouldn’t be able to sleep without an answer. So, he grabbed the portrait and woke up his occupant.

Salazar blinked and yawned, then rolled his shoulders. “Greetings, Snakelings. What do you need?”

“If you could identify that language for us, it’d be appreciated,” Harry gestured towards the box, holding the small frame with one hand.

There was a sharp intake of breath. “Oh, by the Gods. Where did you find it?”

Exchanging a puzzled glance with Malfoy, Harry told him about the tunnel under the rock.

“Do you know what that thing is?” Draco added.

Slytherin’s laughter sounded hysterical and so unlike him that Harry started feeling nervous. He could tell that Malfoy was pretending to be unaffected, but he was picking at his fingernails and didn’t fool Harry.

“I may well become a believer in fate, Snakelings.”

Harry glanced at Malfoy, recognising the glint of interest in his eyes. “Should we put it back?”

“No,” Slytherin replied with a defeated huff. “Someone else could stumble upon it, and I’d rather not risk it. Is the enchantment active?”

Malfoy nodded. “If you mean that pulse of neutral power, yes.”

The painting pinched the bridge of his nose and hissed about insane people digging up what shouldn’t have been dug up, making Noodle agree that things under the sand should stay there. Harry and Draco moved away from the box.

“Well then. That, young Malfoy and young Potter, is the broken Mind Compass that Helga tried to keep away from the world. Close that box, and I’ll tell you what I know.

“When word got around that Godric, Rowena, Helga and I were opening a school, we received a visitor interested in a teaching position. They’d travelled from what is now known as Turkey and hailed from a long and impressive magical lineage, so we accepted them among us and hoped they’d educate our students in languages and practices we did not know of. And it worked, at the beginning. Unfortunately, they had an ulterior motive for joining us: Hogwarts is built on one of the most potent magical nodes in the world, matched only by a handful of areas in Africa. During their years with us, they harnessed some of that strength for themselves and used it to craft what looked like a small plate covered in Urartian script.

“We trusted them, and even after Godric found out they’d drained a large amount of magic from our land, we still believed they didn’t mean any harm—all of us, except Helga. She watched them like a hawk. We didn’t notice the growing despondency of our students and staff, or how easily they listened and obeyed, and soon I was affected by such a deep sense of loss that I would’ve done _anything_ to fix it and feel whole again. I could hear suggestions in my head, and they sounded like the perfect escape; I was familiar with what you call the Imperius, and it didn’t feel like that. My own mind was talking to me, not another voice, not something I could resist. I do not know how Helga convinced the others, but I woke from what had nearly become a catatonic state to find her with a sword in her hand, covered in blood and staring at the body of our magic thief.

“My recovery happened so fast that the corpse was still warm when I realised I’d been manipulated. Rowena confirmed that most of the students were free of this influence, but some of the youngest had died—Helga had figured out who was responsible and took offence.

“We buried our dead, but we were left with a few children who couldn’t wake up, yet still breathed. We studied that metal piece day and night. Rowena called it a Mind Compass after discovering how it could enslave the minds of a great many people at once—the engravings are a guide. Its magic is neutral because it can also be used to heal, as we realised when Godric experimented with it as a last resort to keep our unconscious students alive. He described the magic of the Compass as something akin to Parselmagic, with the mapping and diving beneath any surface. I’ve never used it and am unable to compare them. In the end, the children woke, and while their health never fully recovered, they lived long and fruitful lives.

“Godric and Rowena wished to keep the Compass. Its healing capabilities alone could save so many, yet in the wrong hands, it’d lead to disaster. Imagine what a corrupt monarch or a conqueror could do with it. Helga and I convinced them. We discovered that no magic could permanently destroy it. We even treated it as a Horcrux, to no avail. Even broken into pieces, it still worked, but the pieces had to be close together. We entrusted their fate to Helga and never asked her where she sent them. We swore to keep its existence a secret.”

Slytherin ended his tale with a fierce glare directed at the box, head high and proud. All Harry could think of was that as he learned about some of the deeds of past Dark Lords, Voldemort was only getting started. A sobering thought. Given Malfoy’s ashen pallor, he, too, had been shaken by the story. Who wouldn’t?

Malfoy broke the uneasy silence and stood up. “Very well. I’m going back and burying it again.”

Harry’s heart dropped, remembering Slytherin’s earlier words. “We can’t.”

“Like hell! I am not carrying this thing with me, Potter!”

“Don’t fight,” Slytherin snapped. “You two haven’t changed much, have you?”

A brief memory of being stuck to a wall until they both calmed down flashed through Harry’s mind, and he flushed in embarrassment. Malfoy took a few steps, let out a loud breath and sat beside him, fists clenched and hair ruffled.

“I don’t understand why no one found it before,” the Pureblood drawled. “That magical aura could’ve been detected by many wizards over the centuries, so did it go dormant? Why did it wake up?”

“I’m a painting. I don’t know. But I do know you cannot leave it here.”

Dropping it in the ocean was starting to sound like the perfect plan for Harry. Perhaps in the Mariana Trench or even inside an underwater volcano to avoid being found by Muggle scientists. Magic-suppressing safe boxes would take care of any leaking magic. But what of the other pieces? He frowned and spoke his doubts aloud, leading to Malfoy turning even paler.

“We have to find them,” Draco whispered, horror lacing his words. “We can’t—if someone finds more than one piece and deciphers the instructions—”

It was Harry’s turn to stand up, and he looked at the sky, his determination growing. “Sal, are we on a timer here?”

“I cannot say, but I wouldn’t suggest leaving them in the open for years.”

A flicker of unexpected excitement rushed through Harry. He squeezed Malfoy’s shoulder until he felt him relax, and watched him, quiet, deliberating what their next step should be. He couldn’t imagine doing this without him, so he crouched down and gave him a small smile.

“What do you think, Malfoy?”

A haughty sniff later, and the other man’s skin lost its sickly tone. “Well, it fits my job description and our travel plans.” He smirked. “You’re not getting rid of me on this one, Potty.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Wiltshire_

A screeching albino peacock flew at Draco with only one intent in its creepy red eyes: murder. The young man ducked and stumbled forward on the wet grass, then ran until the bird stopped chasing him. He pushed open the door of his childhood home and closed it after one last glare at his attacker. A twig hung in his hair. He untangled his blond strands and flicked the twig away, thanking Merlin and Morgana that Potter hadn’t witnessed his ridiculous escape. He’d seen enough of them. 

“Master Draco is home! Mopsy is being so happy!”

He smiled at the elf, free and lawfully employed since Granger’s anti-slavery campaign had made waves in the Pureblood community. Mopsy had been his nanny and now held a prestigious place as head of the Malfoy house-elves. “It’s good to see you, Mopsy. Is Mother available?”

The elf’s ears quivered, and she vanished the twig with a snap of her fingers. “Mistress Cissa is being at the Museum. Is Master Draco wanting to wait?”

After casting a Tempus, he figured it wouldn’t be long before his mum came home. “Thank you, Mopsy. I’ll take my tea in the sunroom.” He watched her pop out of existence and headed upstairs, sparing a glance for the white walls that used to be covered by a Victorian tapestry. Blood splatters and unthinkable fluids had forced them to redecorate after the war. The house went from a tired and old-fashioned Manor showcasing riches in every corner to a bright and welcoming home; the portraits had been replaced by moving pictures of their family enjoying themselves. Gone was the dark furniture, replaced by light wooden pieces and complimented by turquoise curtains. If Draco didn’t know better, he could’ve sworn Mother had found her inspiration in Muggle magazines. Still, he liked his penthouse in Covent Garden a lot better. There was no painful memory to face at his place, and he was far from the gloom of Father’s presence.

The sunroom on the first floor overlooked the pond on one side; Draco didn’t look. He had no wish to picture the bodies dumped in the murky water even if he didn’t doubt that the place had changed as well. He sat on the couch facing the opposite bay window and allowed himself a soft smile, chasing off the shadows of the Dark Lord. He’d always enjoyed the view of the hills. They were particularly charming this time of the year, covered in frost that glittered under the rare beams of sunlight.

His tea appeared on the side table—Earl Grey, a dash of milk, three spoonful of sugar—and he found himself missing Scarhead with an intensity that took him by surprise. Three months spent together, never apart, with fights related to the tent or the weather or how much Draco’s sunburnt skin hurt. Not one cruel word, never any intent to cause pain. They fit together so well, beyond Draco’s wildest dreams. And it was all thanks to a portrait in the bowels of their school ten years ago. Unthinkable. He wished he could tell his younger self that one day, Harry bloody Potter would become his friend. That despite going their separate ways after their eighth year, Harry didn’t forget the time they’d spent in the Chamber of Secrets or the aftermath. 

It’d been difficult for Draco. An Auror had carted him off to a Ministry cell, where the guards had treated him like vermin and beaten him because the world thought he’d sequestered their Saviour. It didn’t last: Potter got him out (and got the guards charged with assault). Back at school afterwards, they’d stuck together, to Weasley’s annoyance. They’d studied, met in the common room for a late-night talk when nightmares kept them up. Potter got a passable grade in Potions thanks to Draco, and Draco celebrated a successful Patronus because of the Golden Boy’s help. They’d even ventured into the Muggle world together after their NEWTs and Potter enlisted Granger’s assistance to get Draco into an intensive Muggle studies course—an accurate one. After that, as the plebs would say, shit happened. Draco had used his free time to unwind and explore his identity and sexuality. He and Pansy had joined forces, ditching their uptight Pureblood ways. They’d lost their virginity to each other one disastrous evening, fumbling around like drunken fools who didn’t know their own anatomy, and both realised their complete lack of interest in the opposite sex. Draco had been wearing blinders all these years. He didn’t dream of Potter’s eyes, lips, hands and arse because he envied him; he wanted him, perhaps since puberty. The truth had scared him but still influenced him because he’d barely ever dated anyone. Despite his rather outgoing personality, he liked quiet evenings more than pubs, and one-night stands didn’t appeal to him. He’d prioritised his friends and studies, obtaining a Mastery in Magical History and later enrolling in a Muggle University. With an Archaeology degree in his pocket, he was now one of the very few who could legally work on wizarding dig sites. One could say he’d focused on his career to forget the Boy-Who-Lived. He might’ve been successful if it hadn’t been for the letter that made him drop everything and embark on an adventure.

He admitted, without sugarcoating it, that their travels so far had surpassed his expectations, and that his ridiculous crush on his friend had now gone beyond reason (Merlin, referring to Potter as a friend was odd). In a way, he was glad they’d found the Mind Compass; it’d force them to keep wandering the Earth side by side for a while.

“Draco?”

He stood up and turned towards his mother, grinning. She glowed, healthy and happy, and he let the embrace linger a little; he’d missed her. By the time they sat together, another cup of tea awaited them. “How’s the museum?”

Her eyes shone in delight. “Augusta Longbottom approved her part in the familial heritage display.”

This was a big deal. The opening of the first-ever Museum of Magic, back in 2006, had encountered so much resistance that he’d feared his mum’s great project would meet a sad end. The Purebloods liked the idea of a place to revisit their long history but were reluctant to allow a Malfoy to represent them. They’d been seduced by the fact that none of them would need to pay a Sickle for it; Mother took care of everything, barely making a dent in their fortune even after the war reparations. The Muggleborns, Half-Bloods and so-called Blood Traitors had first thought the Museum would glorify blood purity, but they’d been wrong. The Museum was filled to the brim with pre-20th century History, granting enough space to notable Muggleborns, Squibs and Half-Bloods to satisfy their critics and progressive Minister (neither Mother nor Draco had fully gotten over their prejudices, but Draco, at least, was working on them). Professor Binns had even left Hogwarts and found a perfect spot to drone on and on about Goblin Rebellions in a dedicated section of the Museum. A successful venture with a complicated start that even led to a mandatory visit for all Muggleborn children and their parents, as an introduction to their new world. Inspired by the idea, Hogwarts had added two required first-year courses: Wizarding Traditions and a revised version of Muggle Studies. 

Draco congratulated his mother on this achievement that would complete her most popular exhibition, then asked about her health and Father’s (he would avoid the man until Lucius felt genuine remorse for his actions, but he still hoped he was well). He scalded his tongue with his tea in the process.

“You know your father; he’s pretending nothing has changed and struggles when it comes to our employed elves. As a result, they no longer obey him, serving him only when I request it. He also finds the time to take offence to insignificant details and rarely leaves his office.” She leant forward, grasped his hand and rubbed his skin with her thumb, then let go and drank a sip of her tea. “I am thrilled to see you, my darling. I shall invite the Greengrasses for dinner later this week. What do you think?”

He almost groaned aloud. “Mother—”

“Yes, love, I have not forgotten, but you should think about an heir. Your proclivities aside, Astoria is a lovely young woman.”

“I’m sure she is.” And she was, he knew that. She would even let him live his life without bothering him and would expect the same privacy in exchange. They’d talked about it enough. It would solve everything: they’d produce a child, would love them to the moon and back, raise them together, and they’d never have to touch one another again. But the thought of marrying anyone out of a misplaced and obsolete sense of duty had lost its appeal long ago. He could bet that Astoria shared his opinion. He knew her well: she was part of the tight-knit group of Slytherins who still met regularly since the war, most of them from Draco’s year or below—those who had been at Hogwarts during the war and suffered together. “I still don’t intend on getting married, Mother,” he added.

“Yes, you’ve said so before.” She started smiling with a slow tilt of her head. “Blood adoption is still an option. How is Mr Potter?”

The sharp shift in topics couldn’t be a coincidence; Mother’s observation skills hadn’t dulled over the years. She’d known he was gay long before he realised it himself, after all. He pretended to have no clue what she truly meant and kept his expression neutral. “Annoying as ever.”

“Surely not. I admit I feared you would harm each other, but you seem happier, and I can imagine you had a fantastic time.”

 _Please don’t imagine anything_. “Well, he is fun to be around.” He was itching to tell her all about Turkey and Iran but didn’t know where to start because his mind drifted to memories he’d rather take to the grave (or to Pansy). He took a deep breath, Occluded, and managed to describe the wonders of Cappadocia, the saffron pistachios he’d developed an obsession with, and the colourful wizarding area of Isfahan. He’d loved both countries equally and would one day visit again. It didn’t fool Mother, but she didn’t ask about Potter after that.

By sundown, she’d caught him up on current society gossip, including the latest scandal involving Millicent Bulstrode and Susan Bones’ first appearance as a couple at a Ministry event, and Gin Weasley making headlines as the first known non-binary celebrity in their world. Mother seemed quite confused at the news, so Draco promised to explain what he could as they walked out of the sunroom.

“Andi mentioned how Teddy doesn’t like being referred to as a boy lately. Is that the same thing?” she asked.

Draco filed the information in the corner of his mind, resolving to ask Harry later. He hadn’t seen his cousin often, even after his aunt and Mother reconciled when Teddy was five years old. “Perhaps, but there are many other possibilities.”

“I’ll talk to my sister.” She paused, then embraced him. “Will you stay for dinner?”

“No, Pansy is waiting for me, but I’ll come by tomorrow. You’ll see me at lunch. We’re leaving again in a few days.”

“Oh? Where to, if I may ask?”

It would depend on Potter’s meeting at Gringotts, so Draco didn’t have an answer. “We’re still figuring it out.”

“Well then, please ensure you are not taking risks and visiting a warzone. Even magic is no match against those dreadful Muggle weapons. Don’t be late now, enjoy your evening, and don’t forget to greet your father.” 

#

Draco’s friends hadn’t been welcome anywhere after the war, even if none of them had ever sworn their allegiance to the Dark Lord. For years, setting foot in the Wizarding World meant getting hexed and spat on, but Draco believed he deserved it, mostly. But the unwarranted attacks on his friends and acquaintances, based only on the Sorting Hat’s decision, would always infuriate him. They’d first resolved to meet in the Muggle world, until, unsurprisingly, a Gryffindor saved the day. Parvati Patil, eager to put the past behind her, had opened a lounge bar in Horizont Alley, at the opposite end from Carkitt Market. Doing so had revived a lesser-known part of Wizarding London and made it more appealing to young adults who wished to escape the family-friendly street of Diagon Alley. Her security staff, composed of paid elves, had ears everywhere and would kick out anyone who dared speak against another customer, employee or minority—a rather safe space for Draco. So, since its opening seven years back, the Slytherins gathered here. Tracey even worked behind the bar, providing delicious cocktails to accompany an ever-changing Tapas menu. It was bright, vibrant and modern, and Draco loved it. 

That evening, the place was quiet, its wall sconces casting long shadows and soothing Draco’s nerves, alight after Apparating near a disapproving crowd. He spotted his friends, ordered a Mojito at the bar and slid into an open space on the banquette seat once served. Blaise greeted him with a wink and raised his glass. 

“Well, aren’t we looking sexy tonight, Malfoy. Who would’ve thought you could tan. How long did it take before you went from lobster to sex on legs?”

With a loud snort, Greg dropped his olive back into the plate. Draco spotted fried cheese balls and grabbed one before Millicent could devour them all, and she stuck her tongue at him. 

“It’s good to see you too, Blaise,” he offered in return, getting comfortable. Taking a moment to observe his year mates, he noticed the dark circles under Greg’s eyes, Millicent’s adoring gaze that wouldn’t leave Susan (currently chatting at the bar), and the blue paint on the side of Blaise’s right hand. These small details indicated normalcy he’d gotten used to: Greg’s exhaustion came from his newborn daughter who possessed an impressive pair of lungs and an aversion to sleeping. Millicent and Susan had opened a bookstore in Brighton and shared the space with Finnigan and Thomas’ coffeeshop. They were successful and rubbed their happiness in Pansy’s face because it amused them. Blaise had a six-year-old—born to none other than Gin Weasley when they were still dating—and Draco rarely saw him without any smudge of paint on his clothes or skin. Out of all of them, Draco sometimes felt like he’d been left behind. Unlike Pansy, who refused to settle down, he was a romantic at heart and wished he could share his life with the same person until his death. It wasn’t his fault if he’d never found anyone who could make him forget Scarhead.

“How was Iran?” asked Theo, who had ditched his dark robes for a style reminiscent of Professor Lupin’s. It was fitting for the librarian of the Museum, perhaps, and perfect for a young man who favoured lurking among dusty books and rejected his father’s teachings.

Susan chose this moment to sit with them and clapped in excitement. “Oooh, that’s where you went after Turkey? Isn’t it gorgeous? Did you try the pistachios?”

Ah, Hufflepuffs. He sighed in familiar, dramatic fashion. “I’m grieving, Bones, _grieving_.” He pushed his napkin aside.

“Didn’t bring any back with you?”

Shaking his head, feigning despair, he ranted about the sandstorm that stole their tent and their stash of pistachios. Pansy’s eyes shone with a mischievous glint that sent shivers down his spine, and it worsened when she asked if he had seen Scarhead naked. Blaise hollered, Greg rolled his eyes, and Theo exchanged a long-suffering glance with Millicent. Draco hated how fast his neck reddened, memories flashing through his mind. They’d bathed in rivers, slept in close confines and shared a suite at a resort—of course, he’d seen him naked, and what a glorious sight that had been. 

Pansy cackled. “You’re blushing! Does anyone have a camera?”

“Shut up, Pans!”

At least the Wizarding World and mobile phones weren’t compatible yet. The thought of his friends getting a hold of social media and sharing Draco’s antics for all the world to see terrified him. Most of them had no idea Internet even existed. Still, if they kept rejecting their old ways and dated Muggleborns, or chose to follow Draco’s footsteps and study in University, there’d be no haven for him anymore. Not that Draco was an expert in technology, but he _was_ the only Slytherin who owned a computer (in a magic-suppressing room). 

From his seat, he could see the street when someone entered the bar and could only stare at the gaudy letters of McLaggen’s Pride on the other side of the alley. He arched an eyebrow, curious as it hadn’t been there three months ago. “McLaggen—Gryffindor? A year above us?”

“Fuck him,” Theo muttered with a frown.

He searched his friends’ faces and waited for an explanation, knowing it would be juicy. He fully assumed his taste for gossip involving people he couldn’t stand. It was Goyle who spoke first:

“It’s very loud. Lots of beer and drunk people fighting.”

“Shabby, too,” Susan added. “Not very clean. Cormac’s customers are either people Parvati threw out of here or people who hate Slytherins. They can’t go in, the magic at the door kicks them out.”

“We don’t care.” Pansy ran a hand through her short hair and drank a sip of a bright orange drink, leaving the barest hint of cherry-red lipstick on the glass. “He only attracts people we want nothing to do with. Granger wanted to shut it down though.”

Ah, yes, the Defender of Lost Causes who had yet to fail one of her crusades. Draco reluctantly agreed that she knew what she was doing. “They didn’t listen?” 

Blaise shook his head. “I told her to leave it be.”

“You—? Why? Since when do you talk to her?”

The glint in Pansy’s eyes came back, as did her rather scary cackle. “They’re dating!” 

What? What else had Draco missed? “When did that happen?”

“September. She’s great with the spawn, too.”

Blaise raised his glass and winked at Pansy. “What she said. She’s with him now.”

If Draco wanted news of the Golden Duo (sans Potter), he just had to ask. Pansy and Granger worked for the same law firm and had become closer over the years, to the point where Pansy had been the first person aware of her divorce from the Weasel. The worst part of it? She hadn’t told Draco, out of loyalty for her colleague. _Loyalty_. To _Granger!_ He’d had to find out in the papers. Granger wished to focus on her burgeoning career, Weasley wanted children, it didn’t work out. That happened in 2003; since then, Ronald got his wish with a Ravenclaw from their year, Morag MacDougal. They had three kids, the Weasel was a stay-at-home dad, and Granger changed people's lives daily. All was well. Her dating Blaise was interesting; staying at his place to babysit his child made her a clear winner in Draco’s heart (Matteo was also Gin Weasley’s son and thus close to Granger already). No matter what anyone said, he cared about his friends and their progeny. 

He stared at Blaise, glad that the conversation had switched away from Potter’s bare arse. “Don’t screw this up.”

“I’ll do my best.” A slow smirk bloomed on his handsome face. “Alright, Malfoy, you changed the subject, but you can’t fool us. Your honeymoon isn’t over. Where are you going next?”

#

It was a little after midnight when Draco came home and nearly fell on the marble floor of his hallway when he tripped on his open suitcase. That was one thing a great many people would never expect from a Malfoy: he was messy. Who would blame him? Elves had picked up after him for most of his life. He cleaned up for visitors or when the pile of clean clothes in the laundry room turned into the leaning tower of Pisa, or when the idea struck him. Overall, his penthouse screamed money and organised chaos. His books often distracted him from his chores.

He headed to his bedroom, side-eyeing the rumpled grey sheets of his bed and his collection of pillows and resisting the urge to collapse and snuggle under the covers. He could’ve, but he’d stood outside in a cloud of cigarette smoke, and the smell stuck to his skin, wafting up to his nose with each of his movements. He couldn’t stand it. As messy as he was, he attached a lot of importance to hygiene, and spells weren’t enough. They always left him feeling like his skin was coated in something scratchy. Entering the en-suite bathroom, he undressed and dropped his clothes in the hamper and turned on the shower, his pride and joy. The entire bathroom was built to resemble a cave, with soft lighting and grey stone walls. The shower itself was a waterfall; Draco spent so much time there that he could only congratulate himself for buying an apartment located in a fully wizarding building; hot water never ran out. Magic made each drop reusable, purifying it as soon as it fell down the drain. He stepped under the warm cascade and exhaled in relief. He loved his friends and enjoyed a night out from time to time, but it drained his energy. On top of that, when Pansy drank, she stopped paying attention to his signals when he tried to indicate that he didn’t want to keep a discussion going. In this case, it’d been Potter’s arse, and talking about it strained Draco’s trousers.

Rinsing the shampoo out of his hair, he decided to let temptation win. Wanking when he shared a tent with Scarhead was inconvenient; they’d taken a Portkey to London in the morning, so he hadn’t given in to his urges yet. His right hand shook as he grabbed the base of his half-hard cock and rubbed the pad of his thumb on his soft skin. He pictured it; the dip of Potter’s lower back, the shape of his buttocks, his thighs—fuck, Draco wanted to slide his cock between them. 

He shuddered and pulled, twisting his wrist, his other hand travelling upwards, tracing the scars on his chest and neck. 

He imagined himself biting those arsecheeks, leaving marks behind and running a finger from Harry’s balls to his anus. He’d massage the back of his thighs, spread his buttocks and lick a path between them, teasing his hole, nipping at it, and slowly, so slowly, he’d flatten his tongue on it. Potter would beg, his hole would quiver, and Draco would make him wait. He’d step back and stroke his cock, heavy and leaking, then he’d go back and push his thumb inside Harry, just enough for him to push back. He’d add his tongue after that, lapping as Potter’s desperate pleas would grow louder. He’d feel him attempt to fuck himself on Draco’s tongue. Draco’s hands would leave red streaks on his arse as he’d sucked until his hole gaped, and when Harry’s entire body would start to shake, he’d flip him around and would take his cock deep in his throat, fingering his hole and swallowing around his girth until Potter emptied himself down Draco’s throat. 

His eyes snapped open, and he grabbed hold of the wall as ropes of cum painted the stone wall. He gasped and kept pulling at his oversensitive cock until he couldn’t stand it anymore. 

“Shit.” He gazed, unblinking, at the foggy mirror facing the shower stall. “I’m screwed.” 

He washed the wall and stepped out of the shower. After drying his body and hair with his softest towel, he peered into the mirror, wincing at the sight of the tiny wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. He wasn’t even 30 yet, for Merlin’s sake. He poured a generous amount of lotion in the palm of his hand and rubbed it into his skin, taking his time because he enjoyed pampering himself and had missed his routine while in the desert. He was applying a restorative potion to his hair when something in the upper left corner of the mirror caught his attention: a black dot, pulsing lazily. He took his wand and cast a detection charm on it, but nothing happened, so he tried touching it; his fingers made contact with the mirror, and the dot vanished. 

He blamed it on his third Mojito and headed to bed without a care in the world. 


	3. Chapter 3

Grimmauld Place looked nothing like the horror-show it had once been. Years ago, months of tearing down walls and stripping down tapestries had turned it into a home Harry didn’t hate, even if it was still old, temperamental and impersonal. He might’ve cared if he hadn’t been living at Hogwarts for the past decade. If he kept travelling, it’d take him a long time to put any effort into his decorating choices. 

“It still looks like you just moved in, Harry,” Hermione said with a disapproving frown, grabbing a fresh lemon biscuit from the tray on the kitchen counter. She bit into it and moaned. “Gosh, Kreacher is going all out, isn’t he?”

Harry shrugged with a crooked smile and scratched Noodle’s head. “I didn’t think he’d be so happy to see me. He turned the Chamber of Secrets into a shrine for Regulus and lives there pretty much all the time.” He looked at her, still surprised by her short hair. She’d donated it while Harry was abroad and he didn’t recognise her when she stepped through his door earlier. It suited her. He smirked and leaned closer. “How’s Matteo?” 

She transferred the biscuits onto a plate, forming a messy tower, before glancing at him. “Harry James Potter, that was not subtle.” She rolled her eyes when he grinned. “He’s adorable, of course, but you knew that. Blaise is still a mother-hen.”

In Harry’s mind, Zabini had always been some kind of Don Juan. Gin had described him in a similar way and had spoken about their surprise when he’d taken care of them during their pregnancy; then the baby was born, and Blaise had taken fatherhood very seriously. The couple had broken up a year later but stayed on good terms—a lifeline for them and their little boy once they’d realised he wasn’t acting like most toddlers. Hermione had been there to help them navigate the Muggle world, as autism was almost unknown to wizardkind. Thanks to her early involvement, she was more than familiar with Matteo. The child could talk about animal facts for hours and had a fascination for painting. 

Hermione had been over at Blaise’s so often that Harry should’ve known they’d one day start dating. He hoped their relationship could ease Gin’s guilt over the break-up: Gin had often confided in him that they wished Matteo could spend his time between Gin’s home and his dad’s, but that the change in scenery would upset him when he was younger. Gin had thus taken a step back and chosen to brave the awkwardness of visiting their ex several times a week. It was still odd to imagine Zabini being domestic and discarding his wild ways for a child, though.

Walking into the living room, Harry took a seat next to the fireplace and grabbed a pillow, holding it onto his lap as Noodle slithered down his leg and found a spot to nap near the fire.

“These biscuits are excellent.” Hermione dropped onto the sofa after placing the plate on the table. 

Harry hummed and ate one. “Tell me everything about Blaise, then.”

“You already know him, don’t fish for gossip,” Hermione said with a huff. “Harry, you didn’t ask me to visit for that, so what is it? You’ve been fidgeting.”

It was true; he noticed as he glanced at his fingers, tapping on the pillow. He clenched and unclenched his fists, then traced the velvet and silver threads with his thumb. He hesitated, picturing yesterday’s meeting at Gringotts and hearing Salazar’s warnings about the Compass. He’d listened and didn’t tell Bill why he needed a Curse-Breaker’s containment unit, and Bill didn’t insist, only advising him to be careful. So here he was, with a resizable trunk capable of containing the darkest objects without letting any of the magic leak. The magic-suppressing box he’d found in Iran was so old that it might not be adapted to spells invented after the tenth century. After all, Harry expected to unearth more than just pieces of the Mind Compass. He’d also promised Bill to give him the location of his discoveries and never to enter a tomb or ritualistic area without a qualified Curse-Breaker. Would Hermione be so understanding? Harry didn’t know if she’d let it go. She’d realise right away that Harry had somehow put himself in some sort of danger; there’d be a new mystery to solve, and she might nag him a little—but he needed her help. 

“Harry, what’s going on?”

He looked at her and winced at the worry in her brown eyes. He took a deep breath and asked, “Is there a spell to find parts of an object I already own?” 

She relaxed her posture and smiled. “Of course. A simple _Point Me_ should be enough.”

An old conversation with Draco in the Chamber of Secrets flashed into his mind. Draco had been annoyed at his lack of spell knowledge. “Not for this. I suspect the other pieces could be in different countries—”

“—and you need a way to pinpoint the country they’re in, at the very least.” Her face lit up, her smile widened. “Once you’re there, though—” she bit her lip and looked at the ceiling, “—I wonder…Ooh, I’ll be right back.”

She stepped through the Floo and came back barely thirty seconds later with a pile of books. She reminded Harry of her younger self when excitement overrode her instinct to follow the rules. He hadn’t seen her like this since Hogwarts.

She muttered about Arithmancy, runes and the Marauder’s Map, to Harry’s growing confusion. He knew better than to disturb her in those moments; he stood up and tiptoed out of the room, heading back to the kitchen to fill the kettle and prepare a nice pot of tea. 

“Harry, is Salazar here?” Hermione asked, her eyes locked onto the small print of a thick book. 

Harry served her a cup of tea. “He’s at Hogwarts.” The portrait had used the magic of Grimmauld Place to hop out of his travel-frame, found Phineas’ painting in the attic and followed the link that tied it to the school. 

“Why is he gone each time I visit? I have so many questions!”

“That’s why, Granger.”

Harry would’ve lied if he said he hadn’t felt a thrill running through his limbs. He turned around so quickly that some tea spilt from his cup, and he let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. Malfoy wore a grey cashmere sweater, a tight pair of white trousers, a long scarf and elegant gloves that he was slowly removing, finger by finger. With his tan, that colour-scheme reduced Harry to a blushing mess. They’d been separated for less than two days; Harry’s emotions were ridiculous.

“Do you always barge in uninvited, Malfoy?” Hermione looked distinctly unimpressed.

“Only when the house likes me.” Draco winked, and Harry sucked in a breath. He’d wanked over the git last night, taking advantage of being alone to reimagine his memories of their nights in the desert. He’d managed to avoid embarrassing himself for the entirety of their time in Turkey and Iran and would be quite upset with himself if his body betrayed him now.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked, aware of the calculating stare of his best friend. “Do you want some tea?”

Draco made himself at home on the other couch. “No, thank you. Hangover Potions and hot drinks don’t match.” He sniffed and glanced at Hermione’s book, his arrogant air more endearing than annoying now that Harry knew that his hair looked like dandelion fluff in the morning (Draco had sworn him to secrecy. He’d never survive the shame if the public knew). “Were you trying to map something?” His eyes switched from the book to Harry, and his eyebrows rose. 

Harry shrugged. What could he say? He didn’t like lying to his friends. “We need to know where to go.” When Hermione leaned forward with gleaming eyes, Harry saw Draco’s hand twitch. “I didn’t tell her!”

Draco gave him a pointed look. “I can’t stop you. Deal with Salazar on your own once he finds out.”

“Honestly, you act like I’ll blurt your secrets to the whole world, both of you. There!” She gripped her book tighter and brought it closer to her face. “Treasure Mapping. Specifically designed for children’s treasure hunts.” Harry frowned and Hermione smirked. “No, Harry, it wouldn’t have been useful for Horcruxes, because it was only invented three years ago.”

Good. Harry would’ve been furious otherwise. So much time lost, hiding in the woods—and for what? Sometimes, Harry wondered if camping for so many months had been necessary. It wasn’t like they’d found a Horcrux in the forest of Dean; they hadn’t even been _looking_. Hermione asked him what they were looking for, and he chose to speak, telling her about the Mind Compass, and feeling much better now that he was no longer hiding it from her. She didn’t admonish him or tell him he was insane, which was a plus.

“ _Caveat: may only be used on items you already own_ ,” read Draco, after a lot of eye-rolling. “Alright, so that would work because?” He sneered, and Hermione’s expression reminded Harry of all those times he and Ron had said something she’d considered stupid: a mix of sympathy and pity for their poor, _completely normal_ brains. But Draco was smarter than them and didn’t let her speak, already figuring it out. “Oh. It’s the same object, even if it’s in pieces. The same spell ties the pieces together.” This time, he managed to take the book away from Hermione’s grasp and settled comfortably, one finger tapping his pink lips attractively. “Whoever invented that thing had no idea how Arithmancy works. If we follow their reasoning, we need a three for the full thing, but remove or add one for each piece—five or four, depending on the magic’s stability—that has nothing to do with Arithmancy, were they _drunk_?”

Hermione giggled and unrolled a parchment that she instantly covered in notes, agreeing with Draco and finding this use of numbers odd yet fascinating. Harry tuned them out, content enough with their presence. He left his seat and kneeled by the fire, stroking Noodle’s spine, sometimes taking a sip of his tea or a biscuit. He kept glancing at Draco, appreciating how he moved his hands when his enthusiasm grew. Draco was such an expressive man; Harry could watch him for hours. In fact, he may well have done that, because the kettle was empty, the biscuits gone and the light outside had dimmed by the time Hermione’s delighted squeal startled him. He’d probably dozed off. Portkey travel was exhausting, after all. 

His best friend held a folded parchment with a proud grin, and Draco, who at some point had taken off his shoes and revealed green socks with moving snitches etched into the fabric, snickered and mock-glared at Harry. “What would you do without us, Potter? Come on, bring the Compass.” 

Their creation had nothing in common with the Marauder’s Map. After opening the box containing the piece of metal, Harry watched in awe as Draco brought the parchment closer and tapped one of its corners against the Compass. 

Lines appeared, weak, flickering, drawing crude dunes and rocks and smoke, then vanishing, and sketching jagged lines until a continent formed—Africa. Draco flicked his wand at the parchment, and the drawing switched back to the landscape it had first shown. If Harry had made this map, Draco would’ve had more than one scathing remark about it. Instead, because it was Hermione and Draco’s work, Draco focused on improving its accuracy with a stubborn look.

Harry stood up, stretched his back and rubbed his sore shoulder and hip. He gathered the empty cups, headed to the kitchen and washed them without magic, the pipes groaning in protest. The plumbing of Grimmauld Place was one of the things Harry hadn’t tackled during the Great Renovation of 1999. As he set the cup aside to dry, he felt eyes boring into his neck and turned around, finding his friends in the doorway with wide grins on their faces. 

“Pack up,” Hermione said. “You’re going to Ethiopia.” 

#

“—and that’s a bludger to the face for Summerby, and he’s falling—Cotton breaks his fall, nice catch. Quaffle to Ogden, and score! 440 for the Arrows, will the past repeat itself, we wonder. All eyes on Summerby, we’re not quite sure what he’s doing—and Shah caught the Snitch! The Arrows take the win with 590 points!”

Beside Harry, Ron groaned and booed along with the mass of supporters wearing bright orange scarves or hats and waving giant obnoxious banners. How the Cannons still had that much of a following boggled Harry’s mind. Shivering in the cold October wind, Harry renewed his warming charm. “Sorry, mate.”

“It’s all bollocks, I tell you,” Ron replied with a deep sigh and a grimace. “Didn’t remember that Summerby sucked that much at Hogwarts.” He gestured at the pitch. “The Snitch was right in front of his nose, for Merlin’s sake.”

The announcers speculated on the team’s future, and tensions started to build up, so Harry and Ron made their exit, Apparating to a wizarding pub in Ilkley. Just as grubby as the Leaky Cauldron but with a more varied drink menu, Colin’s offered privacy thanks to a spell targeting photographers and journalists. No Quick-Quote Quill would work in the vicinity, and the Animagus detection ward took care of Skeeter and her colleagues. The owners, Dennis and Magdalena Creevey, had built their pub to be a sanctuary, where war-heroes could relax in peace. Most people who’d fought for Hogwarts in 1998 owned Portkeys or unique Apparition coordinates that could bring them on the doorstep at any time. 

Dennis waved and directed them to their favourite table in the corner, looking much older than his twenty-seven years, profoundly marked by the war. “Hi, Harry! Hi, Ron!”

“Hey, Dennis.” Harry pulled a chair and sat down. “I’ll have some cider. Half-pint, please, I’m Portkeying later.”

“Wilce’s?”

“Yeah, that works. Sweet, please.” He cast a Tempus. Five. Perfect, he still had time before meeting Draco, who would undoubtedly judge his life-choices. After Hermione had left Grimmauld Place, Draco had advised Harry to rest for the next twenty-four hours, not visit Teddy at Hogwarts in the morning and attend a Quidditch match later. Given Harry’s exhaustion despite a good night sleep, he had a point. “I’ll take a portion of fried mushrooms.”

Ron ordered his food and drink and exhaled loudly, taking off his Cannons scarf. He wasn’t gangly anymore; the past few years, spent raising his son and daughters, had given him a bit of a belly. Unsurprising, since he’d learned to cook from his mum and saw no reason not to indulge. Still, he looked good, with a short beard, much fuller than Harry’s, and sparkling eyes. His lifestyle suited him so well; Harry sometimes envied him since he, too, had long wished for a family of his own. 

“Mum is asking if you’ll miss Christmas again this year,” Ron announced once his pint of Dragon Scale and his baked potato appeared on the table with a pop. “She’d be so mad.”

Drinking a few drops of cider, Harry scratched his neck, a small amount of guilt gnawing at him. He’d often celebrated at Hogwarts or Andromeda’s house, ever since Hermione and Ron’s divorce. Molly had been too vocal about her disapproval of Morag at first, so Harry had fled the awkward dinners and side-glances, unwilling to go through the “Bill and Fleur debacle” all over again. It hadn’t helped that Ron and Morag had started dating only a week after the divorce, with Hermione’s blessings. After the birth of Sorcha in 2006, Morag had been welcome at the Burrow and was now close with her mother-in-law. Still, Harry didn’t go back every year. This time, he and Draco might be too busy wandering the globe to even think about it, but if they came home, Harry would likely stay at Andi’s. Teddy’s grandmother couldn’t visit the Burrow: she’d never recovered from the war, and a noisy and crowded house was too much for her. Harry didn’t want to take Teddy with him and leave her alone, so it was often a choice between his beloved clan of gingers and his godchild unless Andromeda visited Ted’s relatives in Spain. 

“Depends on Teddy, you know.”

Ron shrugged. “I get that. Don’t be a stranger, though. Bad enough that you’re always with the ferret—don’t look at me, I’m just the messenger. She doesn’t understand.”

Not many people did. Yes, Harry and Draco had become friends in Eighth Year, but since they hadn’t met once in the following decade, most of their acquaintances had thought they’d gone back to their antagonistic ways. “Draco’s great,” he grumbled after swallowing a mouthful of mushrooms.

“Mate, you’re not fooling me. When are you proposing?”

“Shut up.” A sudden image of Draco wearing a wedding garter made his face burn and his cock twitch. “We’re just friends.”

“I don’t have the emotional range of a teaspoon anymore, and I’m not blind. Whatever you get up to, I don’t want to know, but just tell me if I need to prepare Ethel and Sorcha to be your flower girls.” Ron narrowed his eyes at the arrival of a group of Arrows supporters, then pretended he hadn’t seen them, to Harry’s amusement. 

Ignoring the uncomfortable and absurd topic of proposing to Malfoy, Harry told his best friend about the match he’d seen in Turkey, aware that Ron would care more about Turkish Quidditch teams than the wonders of the desert. When it was time to leave, Ron hugged him and wished him good luck with a salacious leer, and Harry Apparated home. He changed into his travel robes, checked that Salazar had gone back into his portable frame and secured the containment unit inside his suitcase. Noodle hissed a greeting and coiled around his neck. Since his Remembrall didn’t light up, he took the Floo to the Ministry after leaving a note for Kreacher.

He couldn’t wait to discover a new country.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains mention of anti-LGBT+ laws.

Draco nearly lost his dinner upon arrival at the Portkey landing zone of Addis Ababa. He turned away from Potter and heaved, cursing his stomach and his weakness for sweets. After a light, early dinner, while waiting for Harry at the Ministry, he’d eaten a chocolate mousse. Terrible idea. At the whimper behind him, he felt a bit better; Harry was probably regretting whatever pub food he’d had with Weasley. When his mouth stopped salivating, he straightened up his robes and breathed in through his nose. 

There was a mild chill in the air, much like an early summer evening in Wiltshire. The temperature must’ve been below twenty. He looked around, curious and excited. Behind him, the Ministry for Magic stood in all its glory, a two-stories building made of rough stone, likely centuries old. Thick trees formed a canopy over the surrounding houses, circling the Ministry like a spiral. The closest establishments attracted a great many visitors despite the late hour: restaurants and shops, brightly lit by oil lamps, floating candles or torches. Draco’s nausea came back at the scents of spices and grilled meat, so he hurried behind Harry when the other man tugged on his sleeve and started walking towards the arrival desk, which looked more like a merchant stall than a governmental business. It was covered in touristic brochures. The man behind it looked bored and kept casting spells at mosquitoes with his bare hands, using his fingers like a wand. He glanced at them and without a word, recorded their magical signature, eyes flicking to Draco’s forearm. He gave them a Translatall when Potter asked for one, then shooed them away, and Draco blinked, astonished that it had been so easy. Iranian and Turkish officials had demanded to see his credentials and hadn’t been impressed by Potter’s righteous anger when they’d ordered Draco to strip. His name, well-known thanks to his infamous father, had made them contact the British Ministry, and it had taken two hours to get through.

“Alright, I booked us a room,” he told Harry, noticing his ill-concealed yawns. “ _ Point Me _ Tenya Inn.” His wand indicated a narrow street between two restaurants and the Translatall buzzed, informing him that the hotel name meant, unoriginally,  _ sleep _ . It was located at the very end of the alley, hidden from view by trees that protected it from the sounds of the area they’d just left. This time, they were welcomed with broad smiles by two employees wearing traditional garments in white and gold, and Draco’s exhausted brain did a little gig in his head, delighted to be so close to a comfortable bed. Luxury hadn’t factored in his choice of residence, because he’d remembered that Potter had felt awkward when they’d arrived at the resort in Turkey. Instead, this inn was homey, though the outside didn’t inspire him much. The interior was bright, clean and had a wall with hundreds of handprints from satisfied visitors, and another with moving pictures of the many ethnic groups dwelling in the country.

“Mr Malfoy and Mr Potter, welcome to Ethiopia!” The wizard behind the counter had greying hair and a warm presence, the lines on his face showing that he loved to laugh. His nametag identified him as Baalu, the owner. 

Potter’s stance relaxed, and he returned the greeting. Draco stepped forward with a relaxed smile. “Thank you, we’re grateful that you accepted to keep the front desk open so late.”

“Not a bother at all, I assure you.” Baalu thanked Draco when he paid, and two keys floated above the counter. “Breakfast is served from eight to ten. There’s a temperature regulator in your rooms, though the nights are no longer stifling. Should you encounter any issue with the Wireless, don’t hesitate to Floo the front desk, we have maintenance staff until two in the morning. There’s no curfew: feel free to wander, our magical village is best experienced at night.” He paused, glanced at both Harry and Draco, then at the woman at his side, and cast a wandless spell that the Translatall translated into “mute”. A Muffliato, then. “I hope it’s not too forward of me, but as you intend to visit more than Addis Ababa, there are two things you must know. The first is that we do not adhere to the Statute of Secrecy in its entirety: you may encounter witchcraft in rural areas or on markets in smaller cities. It won’t be safe to reveal your magic even if you witness obvious displays in non-wizarding places. The second is that unlike many other nations where the wizarding and Muggle worlds are effectively separate, Ethiopia’s laws are similar on both sides. Do not give the Muggle authorities any reason to believe you could be a couple. Aurors won’t arrest you for it, but the Ministry won’t help if the Muggle police get you.” He pointed at the keys. “This is why I gave you two rooms for the price of one.”

After encountering the same warnings earlier in the year, Draco had been prepared, but it didn’t mean he liked hearing it. He didn’t have the energy to tell Baalu that he was mistaken on the nature of their relationship, and given the set of Potter’s jaw, he, too, was bothered by the information. They’d both get used to it, just like they did in Iran—just like Draco had for years in his own home. He cleared his throat and handed the man another handful of money. “You didn’t need to change the price. Thank you for your honesty and your kindness.” The room he’d booked had separate beds, but he guessed that Potter was famous enough that his coming-out story had travelled all over the world.

They climbed the stairs in silence, and Harry’s gaze lingered on Draco’s face as if he were drinking in his features. His eyes held an intensity Draco had tried not to misinterpret in the past because if being mistaken would only bring him suffering.” Good night, Potter.”

Harry opened the nearest door and turned away from him. “Night, Draco.” 

#

After a delicious breakfast, Draco, free from any remaining nausea, was ready to start a new chapter in his travelling adventures. Potter was still sleeping, so he slid a note under the door and headed outside, hoping his friend’s fatigue was only a result of the Portkey and time difference, not the threat hanging over their heads. Despite these warnings, Draco was determined to enjoy his trip. He wished Harry would manage to think about something else, too.

He encountered a horde of gawking children on their way to school just as he left the alley and his Translatall made itself useful to return their greetings. The restaurants, so animated last night, were closed, but several cafés bustled with activity, and a market covered the entire place in front of the Ministry. It was loud, full of vibrant colours and strong scents. Fruits were stored in wooden crates, large sacks of spices rested beside food carts, wizarding clothes hung next to Muggle jeans, and only a few merchants sold traditional items destined for magical tourists. Wizards didn’t travel as much as Muggles, so the tourism industry never took off. Draco liked it; it meant fewer tourist traps. Creatures he’d never seen before roamed the wide street, four-legged birds dug into the dirt with long beaks and monstrous carnivorous plants towered above the stalls, undulating in the breeze. 

Draco purchased fresh dates and ate them as he wandered, worry still present at the back of his mind. A part of him wanted to go back to the hotel and wait for Harry. Another one told him to wake him up and hug the stuffing out of him and offer him comfort—and Draco’s more rational thoughts pushed him in another direction, the one where Harry hadn’t gone to sleep feeling hurt or scared. Things would be so much easier if all Draco wanted from him was sex, but no, Scarhead was more than that. 

Draco Occluded to clear his mind and focused on the sights, taking them all in, leaving politics and laws behind. He stuck out like a sore thumb, blond hair almost white under the hot sun. A woman with a complicated hairdo told him to renew his Sunscreen Charm, and he did, purchasing a bag of dried mangoes from her in thanks. His father would disagree with the consideration he gave so freely. Another reason to be friendly with everyone, he thought. He didn’t know when he’d started smiling with so much ease, though full grins still eluded him most of the time; he had a niggling feeling that Scarhead’s letter had something to do with it.

No. Fuck, that train of thoughts needed to go. He distracted himself with the stunning displays of wandless magic all around him, from the most mundane levitation spells to the killing curse when a customer didn’t wish to transport live poultry. Some merchants used a wand; most didn’t. It made Draco curious about everything; he wanted to know the differences between Afar and Amhara magic, the various practices no one in Europe had ever heard of—all of it fascinated him. He wondered what ancient secrets lay under the ground, buried for centuries, and if he’d find anything aside from a broken piece of cursed metal. But first, he and Potter needed to know what they were getting into. 

After cleaning his sticky hands with a wave of his wand, he headed towards the Ministry. A ward probed and prodded him, lingering on the empty spot where his Mark used to be, but ultimately letting him through, and he was led through a corridor by a Metamorphmagus who kept changing their appearance—perhaps so they wouldn’t get attacked outside of work should they refuse to give someone access? Why Britain didn’t use the same security system was beyond him. 

Inside, the decoration was warm and inviting, with many knick-knacks displayed on shelves or in glass cabinets in a beautiful exhibit, a real treat for visitors. Hand-woven baskets, moving paintings, gorgeous pottery in crisp colours, artefacts oozing magic—it was a stark contrast with the Ministry in London. Beings of all sizes and magical races hurried so they wouldn’t be late for work. Around the welcome desk, someone had mounted pictures of wanted criminals or dangerous creatures.

Once in front of the open door of the International Relations office, Draco ran a nervous hand through his hair. The Metamorphmagus introduced him to a woman who had to be a vampire, then left him in her company. When she smiled, she revealed not two pointy teeth but a mouthful of them. He pretended it didn’t bother him and took a seat when prompted, noticing the lack of windows. 

“Mr Malfoy, I hope you’ve enjoyed our morning market.” She spoke English with barely any hint of an accent. “I was intrigued by the justification behind your Portkey request and am glad you chose to come to me before I had to send someone to find you. You mentioned being an archaeologist, and I’ll get straight to the point: do you intend on bringing your possible finds home with you?”

Draco shifted on his seat. He loved the thrill of discovery, but didn’t need to collect old vases to feel like digging in the sand was worth it. “I believe ancient artefacts belong to the descendants of their creators. I have no intention of stealing historical relics.”  _ The Mind Compass is not of Ethiopian origins _ , he added behind his mental shields. 

“Mh.” She drummed her fingers on a long parchment and words appeared in black ink, in a language Draco couldn’t read. “Your mother owns a museum, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, focused on the British Wizarding World. She doesn’t plan on including other cultures.”

“Very well. Where are you headed?”

Draco shook his head. The map hadn’t pinpointed the exact location of the Compass; after showing the entire continent and being tweaked to be more precise, the parchment had proved its limits. Granger had then discovered that it would unveil an accurate position little by little, as they got closer to what they sought. “I don’t know yet. Is that an issue?”

“No, feel free to wander. I’d caution against heading to Aksum and Gondar, as there’s no wizarding presence in the area. And as much as it may impede your thirst for ancient treasures, we are not welcome in Lalibela, and you should stay away from churches, old or new.” She was no longer smiling, and a shiver ran down Draco’s spine. “This,” she handed him a thin book bound in leather, “is a guide that should assist you in finding accommodation and help, should you need it. A variant of the Protean Charm allows you to communicate with the establishments listed—we’ve been quite inspired by Muggle technology.”

Wonders would never cease. This had to be the most helpful creation in the history of magical travel. He forgot all about his unease and thanked her, before asking a few questions about important customs he may have missed, and writing everything down. He and Potter had spoken about their planning strategy at length before heading to Turkey; while they’d left England with some knowledge of their destination (there was nothing helpful on the Internet for countries with separate governing bodies), their first stop had been the tourist information centre and the Ministry. They’d repeated that in Iran, then had spent an afternoon studying documents to ensure they wouldn’t end up disrespecting someone.

He stood in the shade of a tree, perusing the book when a deer Patronus startled him. It brought a message in Potter’s groggy voice, apologising and blaming the time difference and nausea for sleeping in. Draco rolled his eyes. “ _ Expecto Patronum.” _ A peacock burst from his wand, catching the attention of a few passerby’s. “Tell Potter to meet me behind the Portkey landing zone.”

The crack of Apparition only made Draco sigh, and he turned towards the noise. Potter had a sheepish smile, his hair was even worse than usual, and his glasses were smudged, but he looked well-rested. “Ever heard of Apparating quietly? It’s something civilised adults do, Potty,” Draco drawled.

“Good morning to you too.” Potter stared at Draco’s bag. “Anything new?”

“Well, yes, while you were lazing around in bed, I got the boring stuff out of the way.” They started walking, dodging those odd birds that seemed curious about them—about Draco’s magic, probably. At least birds were better than spiders, even when they had too many legs. Harry’s eyes moved from one thing to the next, as charmed or shocked by some of the sights as Draco had been earlier. “Did you eat yet?”

“They were still serving breakfast, so yeah. I had a crepe—” Harry frowned and scrunched up his nose. “At least I think it was a crepe. Tasty. So, what did you get?”

Draco repeated what the woman with the terrifying teeth had told him, showed Harry the book and discussed the wandless spells he’d seen earlier. Potter nodded along and stared at a tree where the birds congregated in a noisy swarm. “What the fuck are those?”

Vindicated, Draco threw his arms in the air. “I  _ know _ !”

“They’re staring into my soul!” whispered Potter with a cute pout that Draco wanted to kiss. “They’re like a Transfiguration experiment gone wrong. Like someone merged two birds in one but forgot the legs. I think I have a new Boggart.” He hissed into his collar. “Noodle says they’re murder birds and eat snakes.”

“Well then, let’s get as far from them as possible, shall we?”

They walked along the spiralling street. The market stretched far from the centre, stalls sharing the space with shops, or simply expanding existing stores by displaying merchandise outside. Witches gathered in groups, laughing or arguing, small children who could barely walk toddling around them or playing with magical trinkets. There were so many objects flying around, diving and narrowly missing people’s heads, that Draco couldn’t help but think how it all looked like a Weasley Wizards Wheezes town. He and Harry didn’t resist the pull of the sports shop and found themselves surrounded by more than just broom kits or pitch equipment. The place reminded Draco of a Muggle department store, but a lot more confusing. It also benefited from an Expansion Charm, making the inside much bigger than the outside.

Harry, who had a one-track mind when it came to Quidditch, headed straight towards the broomsticks. Intrigued, Draco followed and found himself admiring an absolute beauty that he immediately wanted to buy. The broom was made for an adult, its polished, dark brown wood managing to look rough despite its shine. Near the tail, discrete rings of red and light brown paint stood out, and the engravings around them caught Draco’s eye; the twigs, tightly bound but still appearing natural, were decorated with coloured beads. With his trusted Translatall, he asked about its speed and reactivity to an excited employee, and Potter joined the conversation with a wide grin. 

The broom’s capacities were slightly below that of the original Firebolt, but it offered more comfort. The length of its handle made it slower to turn around; however, it was faster if flown in a straight line. Not the best for Quidditch, then, but excellent for broom racing. An Oromo design, they were told. There was another broom celebrating a different ethnic group, this time accompanied by a full set of gear, including a Snitch with fascinating, ever-changing patterns on its surface. Draco loved it. 

“We’ll be back,” he assured the employee, who was now trying to convince them to buy it. “I swear we will.” Beside him, Harry nodded. Then, Draco remembered a small  _ detail _ . “Do you have any camping gear?”

They were soon faced with a wide array of tents, some Muggle, some with only essential spells woven into the fabric, and a few luxury pavilions as big as Draco’s apartment. As much as he wanted one of those, he decided to let Harry choose for them, hoping the prat wouldn’t just tell him they already had one. Thank Merlin, Potter seemed to have some sense. 

They bought a pop-up tent, tiny in appearance, but bespelled with the kind of charm their first tent had. Before leaving, Harry had to sign an autograph, and Draco teased him relentlessly until a new store distracted him. Magical foci—wands, crystals, and beaded wires in this case—often interested him; they said a lot about the local practises. 

#

It was dark and chilly by the time they headed back to the hotel, sated after a delicious vegetable stew eaten at an open-air restaurant. Mosquitoes had swarmed Draco, and he’d grown quite annoyed with them after a while. Why did his magic have to be so attractive for all kinds of pests? 

Harry invited him into his room, and Draco used the Invisibility Cloak to prevent dangerous rumours. In the back of his mind, he could only hope that one day, perhaps, there’d be another reason to sneak into Potter’s room at night. To make things worse, they settled on the bed to continue their discussion about their next stop, using their map and the book given at the Ministry to find a place to stay.

Potter had a Muggle map unfolded in his lap since Draco and Granger’s fancy parchment didn’t include modern roads or cities, only natural pathways and terrain. He pointed at an empty spot beside the Blue Nile river, and Draco checked what his guidebook said about it. “There’s one hotel there, but it’s too close to the water.” Draco sighed and sneered. That would mean mosquitoes. “And there’s another by the lake.”

The expression on Potter’s face turned pensive. “We have a tent, now, if you’re happier far from the water.” 

“No, we’ll be fine. Just cast a Bug-Repelling Charm a few times.” A hotel meant a point of contact if they were in trouble—and really, who would go camping in a city? No matter how great their tent was, it just wouldn’t feel right. 

Their next destination flickered on the map: Bahir Dar, north-west of the capital. As much as Draco wished he could dig around the country in search of hidden history and visit the sights, he and Potter agreed to focus on the Compass. They could just take a series of Portkeys until they found it, but they compromised by staying one night or two in each of their arrival points.

The conversation soon switched to the complicated topic of Christmas gifts when Potter told him he wanted to buy a Snitch for Teddy. Draco had almost forgotten they’d planned on being home by then. “Shit. I have to find something for Mother.”

Harry pinched his lips, eyes gleaming. “Oh, poor you. You don’t know pain until you try pleasing Sorcha. She’s a terror.”

Ah, the Weasel’s spawn. One of them. He had three, didn’t he? Perhaps Ronald and Morag hoped to beat Molly and Arthur’s record. According to Harry, who’d been quite talkative about his chosen family earlier this year, the others weren’t attracted to family life the way Ronald was. William may have a trio of hellions, but he’d made it clear he didn’t want any more children. The Dragonologist never seemed to be dating anyone, Percival collected failed relationships, and George was raising awareness on asexuality in their world, often mentioning his intent to adopt no more than two kids. Whether Gin would ever give a half-sibling to Matteo was up in the air. Potter believed that Ronald wouldn’t stop as long as his wife agreed. 

Still, Sorcha was a child from a modest background, how hard could it be? Even if Ronald spoiled her, it’d never be as bad as Draco, who’d thrown tantrums if the colour of the wrapping paper didn’t match his favourite shade (a preference that changed day after day until he was eleven and firmly settled on a particular green). He told Potter that part of his shameful past and Potter snorted, the git.

“That’s not what she does, but thanks for sharing, Malfoy. Sorcha just doesn’t accept any gift from anyone but her dad, and believe me, if you just get her something and let Ron give it to her, she always knows.”

“Mh. Just don’t touch it and don’t practise any magic around it. She probably senses your magical signature.” Draco stood up, entertained by Potter’s surprise. “Lovegood would be delighted to explain. May I use your bathroom?”

“Er—yes. I’ll just write to Luna then.”

“Tell her about the murder birds.” Draco strode into the bathroom, catching a glimpse of Noodle, busy hissing with Salazar’s portrait on top of Harry’s suitcase. Unfair. How he wished he could understand them. 

He’d barely finished washing his hands that a peculiar black squiggle on the mirror brought a frown to his face. It was moving like a worm but seemed to be under the glass. “Potter, come here.”

Harry’s muffled voice sounded bewildered. “What?” 

“I need your help.”

“Malfoy, are you okay?”

What the hell was Potter imagining? Draco sighed and flicked his wand at the door to open it. “There’s something in your mirror, and I figured I’d ask Hogwarts’ best Defence teacher to take a look.” 

Potter was already standing there, wand in hand, a bit ruffled. “It’s just a bug, right?”

“Clean your glasses. It’s inside the mirror.”

“Oh.  _ Revelio _ .” No result. “Okay, not a bug.” Potter cast a series of spells while Draco’s brain pointed out, unhelpfully, that watching himself being fucked against that mirror would be the highlight of his day. He left the bathroom before his cock could betray him, and asked Salazar about cursed mirrors, without getting any answer fitting the situation. 

“No idea what that is,” Harry muttered shortly after. “Let’s just leave it be. If you find the same thing in your room, don’t touch it.”

“I’m not stupid, Potter.” Harry was the reckless idiot between them, so Draco was almost insulted. 

And when he went back to his room and saw the same thing in his mirror, he chose to keep the lights on all night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nope, the thing in the mirror wasn't a camera :D


	5. Chapter 5

“It’s the Compass,” Harry announced as he joined Draco outside with his luggage, Noodle hiding in his sleeve. He’d stayed up most of the night studying the mirror, knowing that he shouldn’t do this alone, but unwilling to bother Draco. Slytherin had helped a lot more once Harry had shown him the mirror instead of describing it.

Draco readjusted the strap of his bag. “What?”

“The black stuff.” Harry smirked at his friend’s expectant look. “The mirror. Sal said the Compass was waking up.”

“So, we’re hallucinating?”

“It’s more like a Boggart, I think. Not technically real, but there’s still something behind it.”

“And deadly if we get overwhelmed,” Draco pointed out with a worried frown.

 _Oh_. Harry hadn’t wanted to freak him out, but he sometimes forgot that Draco’s views of danger were a lot different from his. Yes, Harry would always be scared for others, but rarely for his own safety. He still thought the Sorting Hat must’ve been out of its mind about its original choice of Hogwarts House. He felt a desperate need to protect Draco, similar to what he’d experienced upon learning about the dangers of appearing like a couple. He hadn’t slept well that night and needed to catch up on his sleep as soon as possible. “We’ll be fine,” he whispered, hoping to reassure the other man.

Draco nodded, stiff and fidgety. Harry was relieved to see the owner, Baalu, coming closer and handing them a Portkey. The owner of the inn had been delighted to tell them that the hotel on the Blue Nile banks belonged to his eldest daughter.

“Have a safe trip! Chereka has your rooms ready.”

“Thank you!” Harry grabbed the Portkey, made sure Noodle was safe, and moved closer to Draco, before being whisked away. The landing didn’t turn his stomach, so that was a plus. Again, they went through the check-in and luggage drop, and Harry knocked on Draco’s door when he was done.

“Come in.”

Once again, the rooms were identical. Draco had laid out his silk pyjamas on the bed, and Harry found himself remembering how good he looked in them. “You’re sure one night is fine?” Harry pointed at the suitcase. Draco only unpacked if they stayed somewhere for more than twenty-four hours.

Graceful fingers smoothed the fabric of the pyjamas before Draco hid his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “If I didn’t want to see the lake, we’d be gone already. The sooner we find every piece of the Compass, the quicker we can go back to digging up harmless antiques.”

“You still want to do that with me afterwards?”

“Yes, Potty, and I picture us with grey hair, wandering the Earth until we can barely walk.”

Harry gaped at him, and his heartbeat sped up. Was he kidding? Could Harry trust his reading of Draco’s expressions, when he’d gotten them so wrong in the past? Yet, a few seconds after uttering these words, Draco’s skin flushed, and he attempted to hide it. So, Harry wasn’t wrong then. He swallowed, palms suddenly clammy. “I’d like that.”

It was Draco’s turn to stare at him with wide eyes. “You would?”

“Of course!” Harry could feel the heat on his face. “I’m having an amazing time.”

“You don’t think I’m unbearable?”

“Malfoy, I’d have left you in Turkey if you annoyed me.” Wondering what happened to bring doubts to his friend’s mind, he reached out and squeezed his wrist, marvelling at the softness of his skin. “What brought this on?”

Draco didn’t make any gesture indicating that Harry should let go. “I guess I’m just—nevermind.”

“ _He’ sss afraid_ ,” Noodle hissed, coiling around Harry’s neck. “ _Thinking too much.”_

“ _About what?”_

“ _Sssal saysss about you. Saysss it’ sss like murder birds for humansss.”_

Harry blinked and chose to face this head-on, quite certain he’d decrypted his snake’s words. He tightened his hold on Draco’s wrist, just enough to check his mood. If Draco didn’t want to talk, he’d tell him off. Since he didn’t, Harry’s Gryffindor boldness surfaced. “It’s the laws, right?”

“Noodle and Pansy would get on fabulously. Gossip mongers, both of them.” Draco glared at the snake, then took a few seconds before continuing. “It doesn’t feel good to be in danger because of who I am. I figured you might’ve wanted to go home, after what Baalu told us.”

“I’m not saying it didn’t affect me,” Harry replied with a shrug. It’d given him flashbacks of the cupboard under the stairs. He wanted to tell Draco how touched he was, but he’d always been terrible at talking about his feelings. “Thank you for worrying about me.” He let go of Draco’s wrist and bit his lower lip. “Feels like we need a drink. I’d toast to our life on the road.” Perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed like they’d reached a new step in their friendship.

Draco was uncharacteristically quiet for the next few hours. They dressed in Muggle clothes, rented two bicycles and spent the entire morning cycling on wide avenues, trying not to get into any accident (Draco’s skills on two wheels had improved, but still, he’d never ridden one before Harry taught him when they hung around the Antalya Coast). Harry loved how green the city was; thick trees rose at every corner, sheltering birds of all kinds and providing shade when Draco needed a break from the sun. They took pictures on the shore of the lake, avoided persistent street vendors and played their part as tourists by joining one of the cruises on the river. They had grilled fish for lunch, then headed back to the hidden magical street near the university. From there, they rented brooms equipped with Notice-Me-Not and Muggle-Repelling Charms and flew over the Blue Nile river. Harry kept glancing at a beaming Draco and got distracted by his gorgeous smile, losing the race to the falls. They joined a game of pick-up Quidditch and took a break from the Compass and the thing in the mirror. Harry caught the Snitch, Malfoy unveiled a talent for the Beater position, and they were invited to dinner by their impromptu teams.

They ate and drank and ate again. They learned how magical education worked, argued about the Quidditch World Cup, tasted home-made alcohol and listened to a local band. Draco’s eyes glittered, his hair stuck to his forehead and he had dirt on his cheek; when a drop of sweat ran down his neck, Harry groaned. He was in so much trouble.

#

That night, rain poured on the roof of the hotel, and lightning illuminated the rooms and hallways. Humidity compensated the drop in temperature, and Harry had long given up on sleep. He was a bit drunk, but more than that, he was naked on his bed and very, very horny.

He stretched his hole, soft and slow, hooking his fingers to find that sweet spot. His breath shuddered. His cock leaked on the sheets, no longer hard yet getting wetter with each push against his prostate. He couldn’t help but moan, wrist aching. He loved this. To avoid a humiliating reveal of his sexual prowesses on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ , he didn’t date; he’d slept with a few Muggles when he was figuring out what he enjoyed, but he didn’t like one-night stands, so he’d found ways to pleasure himself beyond the usual toys. Milking was, by far, his favourite activity, though it could last for hours and wasn’t suited to a shower stall. He wondered what Malfoy would look like if Harry did it to him. Would he beg for release, or would he relax under Harry’s touch and melt in his arms?

Harry inserted a third finger into his arse and spread his legs wider. His free hand pulled on his flaccid cock, just a bit, not enough to wake it up. It’d taken practice; long hours of testing his resistance now allowed him to prevent the pain of a prolonged erection. He’d found he liked soft cocks, too, and Malfoy’s was particularly appetising. Imagining it almost ruined his efforts. He drew out his orgasm, panting against his pillow, and when his wrist was too sore to continue, he finally allowed himself to harden and came after a single stroke. He lay on the sheets, dazed, listening to the rain on the window.

He had to support himself against the wall to reach the bathroom and sat in the shower so he wouldn’t crumble, his legs still shaking. When he went back to bed, the sheets had been changed and the air purified. He unrolled the map on his pillow and settled comfortably against the headrest. Far towards the North-East, a new dot flashed, so Harry Accio’d his Muggle map to compare the terrain, and wished he had a computer to do some research. That place looked like a big empty space.

#

They’d been warned about the laws, then about the heat in the desert and the armed bandits threatening vehicles. They’d been told that flying or using obvious magic would quickly be spotted: mirages could distort the horizon enough to pierce through invisibility charms. And they’d learned that no Portkey could bring them any closer to the desert; the town they’d stopped in, Agula, was their last chance to turn back by safe magical means. Yes, they could Apparate back, but that wasn’t a great option with those distances and this heat. If they had to, they should wait until nightfall. They laughed it off with a hint of nervousness.

Draco made his distaste of the car clear; Harry didn’t mind so much, and it was amusing to see his friend sneer. To avoid destroying the vehicle, they couldn’t use magic inside, and the air conditioning was flimsy at best. Their guide, Amanuel, repeated a few warnings, ensuring they wouldn’t need to get out of the car while they were on the riskier parts of the road, no matter how long it took. He carried a rifle but was a wizard, so Harry worried a bit.

Their car joined a convoy of tourists and military personnel, worsening Harry’s anxiety. Draco asked if they’d stay with them the whole time; the answer was yes. They were sticking together for added safety. Harry didn’t want to be anywhere near the military, but it looked like they didn’t have a choice.

They’d been stuck in the car for two whole days, gazing at an arid landscape; they’d slept in their tent in a nomadic village where both of them had to pretend they appreciated being flirted with by two young women from the group of tourists. Now, after being followed by small sand twisters, they’d reached their destination, and all Harry could see was nearly flat, rocky land; rather dull, if he was honest. The tourists and guards were already leaving on foot, walking up a gentle slope.

When Harry stepped out of the vehicle, already dripping sweat, he didn’t notice anything odd, but when the climb started, he realised his shoes were getting a lot hotter than they should. He was discrete, keeping his wand in the sleeve of his light tunic and casting a Protective Charm under his breath. Draco’s lips moved to do the same.

Amanuel stopped them just as they reached the top, checked that no one was watching and cast a spell at them with his fingers. Harry blinked as the Bubble-Head Charm took hold. “Why do we need it?”

“Merlin,” Draco breathed out, and Amanuel grinned, stepping aside to let them through. “What the fuck is this?”

At his side, clutching the straps of his backpack, Harry gasped, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. This wasn’t a desert. He’d expected the salt flats, though they’d been much larger than he’d thought; he’d believed the Lut desert was odd with its rock formations, but this? Draco was right, what the _fuck_?

“Welcome to Dallol!” Their guide seemed to be bursting with joy. “You’re the only foreign wizards to visit in twenty years!”

Harry had no idea how to describe this place. How could it fall under the radar so much? Why hadn’t he ever heard of it before? The otherworldly beauty of sulphur ponds, salt formations, geysers and bubbling pools of acid took his breath away. Natural chimneys let out white fumes, the ground was scorched and scarred, going through every shade of brown, yellow and green. The colours were so bright! The wind was burning Harry’s face, and he believed that those fumes might not be entirely healthy: most of the Muggles wore masks.

“Is there a volcano somewhere?” he asked as the salt cracked under his feet.

Amanuel gave him a strange look—why wouldn’t he? Who came here without knowing what they’d see? “You’re standing on it. There are two active craters further down South. Part of the convoy is going there tomorrow if you want to follow?”

“Maybe, yeah.” Harry stared at a scientist setting up a testing station. While everyone was too busy admiring the ground and Amanuel was on the phone to ask his boss if the trip could be extended, Harry checked the map and felt his heart drop. The dot hadn’t moved, and this meant only one thing.

“You’re telling me the piece is somewhere in there?” Draco hissed, narrowing his eyes.

Wincing, Harry nodded. “Any suggestion?” They couldn’t exactly dig. He took a large gulp of water; Draco made a small noise, so Harry gave him his bottle.

“Thanks. It hurts to breathe.” He drank and handed it back to Harry. “Either we come back here at night—mirages in the dark aren’t common, so magic should work—or we just try and summon it.” He lowered his voice and flicked his wand arm. He also wore a long-sleeved shirt, enchanted to keep him as comfortable as possible and protecting him from the sun, so no one could see his holster. “ _Point Me_ Mind Compass.”

Harry followed Draco, carefully choosing where to walk. He could feel the ground vibrate with the ebullition going on beneath, and his feet sunk into the coloured salt. He hated it. He noticed that Amanuel had finished his call and was keeping an eye on them. Unsure if he should feel relieved about it or not, he decided to ignore it.

The distance between them and the group grew until Draco stopped. He was standing on top of a series of terraced pools, next to a vent as tall as his waist. Harry took a picture.

“Potter, I look atrocious, what are you doing?”

Harry clucked his tongue. “You don’t. I expect you to return the favour, or no one will believe us about this place.” He snapped a few more pictures, then approached him. “It’s somewhere here?”

“No, my wand is still tugging at me.” He cast a Revealing Charm, which Harry complemented with the same detection spells he’d used on his mirror. If he put enough power in them, they’d cover a wide area.

They continued walking and casting until finally, Harry’s efforts produced a result. The brief glow came from the salt flats.

“Are you looking for something?”

Startled, Harry managed not to injure himself. He couldn’t look Amanuel in the eye.

“Just curious,” Draco said, a bit haughty. “What’s down there?”

Amanuel explained about the few holes forming in the salt flats sometimes, and offered to bring them closer with a few guards. Harry took a panoramic shot of the place. Nightly Apparition sounded like a good plan, as they wouldn’t get rid of the tourists and guards without putting themselves at risk. But if they could find the shard during the day and come back for it later, it’d be a bonus. So, they agreed, and two armed men joined them. Under Harry’s feet, the ground was nearly black. He didn’t hide his relief when he could no longer feel that ominous bubbling indicating that the ground was way too thin for his comfort, and he stopped watching where he was going. He saw Draco shudder at the sight of a dead scorpion and his lips curled into a grin.

A few seconds later, time seemed to stop, as the ground cracked and Harry fell. The saltiness of the water stung his eyes, and he swam back to the surface, gasping for air, heart beating a mile a minute.

He clung to the edge of the hole his weight had just created and coughed. Amanuel didn’t seem concerned, and the guards had a look of polite interest. Draco, however, was kneeling close-by, and Harry swore he saw his hands shake before he tightened them into fists.

“I’m okay,” Harry blurted between two coughs, adjusting his glasses and moving his legs to keep his head out of the hole. Actually, he was even more than okay. The freshness of the water was delightful. It stung quite a bit now though; Harry must’ve gotten scratched in his fall. He glanced at Amanuel. “Does that happen often?”

“No. If it did, the whole place would be full of holes, and we would never risk driving around.”

Harry checked the thickness of the salt around him and found it good enough, almost everywhere. Of course, Harry would be the only unlucky soul walking in the wrong spot. He hoisted himself up, quickly helped by Draco and one of the guards. Standing up, he wiped his face with his hands, squinted through the distorted view of his wet glasses and noticed fresh blood welling up from a few cuts on his leg.

“It’s just water,” Amanuel said before Harry could ask about the risks of his unexpected dip. “Very salty water, mind you, but you’re not in trouble.”

Draco eyed the cuts and cleared his throat. “Let’s go back; I feel quite dizzy from the heat. My apologies for dragging you out here.”

As they walked back, Harry listened to Amanuel’s stories about the Afar people, but he kept looking at Draco. He might have a heat stroke, but it was more likely that he’d found the Compass and didn’t want to linger. What if the guards saw it?

And so, they came back at night, as unwise as it sounded. They left the safety of their tent under Harry’s invisibility cloak, and with a clear image of the brand new hole in mind, they silently Apparated away from the campsite. The salt flats gleamed like a geode under the moonlight. The temperature was pleasant compared to the heat of the sun, but unlike the nights in the Iranian desert, it was still too much to stop sweating. Hottest place on Earth indeed.

They could hear the bubbling and geysers behind them as they made sure not to approach the geothermal area. Draco started scanning the ground and the hole with a silent spell while Harry cast several protective charms, unwilling to encounter a wolf or a hyena while they were alone. Without the rays of the sun distorting reality, Harry was more confident in his Muggle-Repelling and Disillusionment Charms, but he still added a ward to alert them of any intruder and avoided using _Lumos_ or any kind of light. Then, he petted Noodle, who was sleeping around his neck and sat on the ground. Draco had already removed his shoes.

“Thanks for volunteering, Malfoy.”

“I’m not doing this for you; I’ve been dying to swim ever since you fell in there.” A quick look around and Draco removed his tunic, then lowered himself into the hole and cast the Bubble-Head Charm on himself. Hopefully, it would protect his eyes from the salt. Then Draco moaned, and Harry’s blood went straight to his cock. “Oh, Merlin, that’s nice.”

“Be careful,” Harry said with a cough. He forced himself to ignore his arousal, and soon he was alone. He couldn’t help but think about the Horcruxes and how they reacted when destroyed, and he found himself praying—to what, he didn’t know—that they weren’t making a mistake, that Draco wouldn’t die down there. He looked at the dark water and thought it might be difficult for Draco to find his way back, so he dipped his wand under the surface and cast _Lumos_. He stayed there even when his arm started to hurt.

Just as he got worried, Draco pushed his hand away and handed him a pointy shard of metal.

Harry’s relief was overwhelming, and as soon as Draco was out of the water, he hugged him, smiling at Draco’s startled protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting, I know it took a while! I got busy with fests and it's not over, but I did find some time to finish this chapter.   
> If you want to see what the place Harry and Draco are visiting looks like, I recommend watching [this incredible video](https://vimeo.com/244004001)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahem. I'm not dead. *waves*   
> I'm also back in full lockdown. Not that it changes anything to my daily life because I have literally not left my house or seen anyone except the grocery delivery drivers since March.

Draco and Harry extended their stay in Ethiopia by a few days, taking some time to visit the lush Semien Mountains after the alien sights of Dallol. They even took a peek from afar at a church in Lalibela despite the warnings but quickly Apparated back to the safety of a wizarding settlement before someone spotted them. Draco believed that, ironically, the most religious areas of the country were warded against magicians. He wondered if a magical being had been forced to create them, or if they'd been paid handsomely. He found he'd rather not know.

They shared their new tent more than once instead of Apparting back and forth, and on the last morning, Draco woke up in Harry's arms. He froze, cheek resting on a naked shoulder. He had no idea how he'd gotten into this situation.

Potter's skin was soft and smelled like the forest. A dip in the river and a Cleaning Charm hadn't been enough to entirely rid him of the scent of sweat, and he must've been too hot during the night, but Draco was used to body odour by now. He didn't mind it much; it was still subtle enough and made Harry's unique scent stand out. It smelled exactly like Amortentia to him: wet stone during a thunderstorm, broom polish… Draco couldn't help himself, and nuzzled Harry's neck, breathing in.

He knew he wasn't hallucinating: Harry had become more tactile lately and his eyes often lingered on Draco's body. But Draco didn't want to deal with the awkwardness of a one-night stand, and he wasn't quite sure what to do. He couldn't forget that Harry had been hard when he'd hugged Draco in the desert, and the sizeable bulge intrigued him, but what would be the point if it was just sex? Draco wanted Harry to himself all day and night, forever. So what if he was possessive?

Harry groaned, and Draco sat up quickly, dislodging the arm around his waist and scooting away in his sleeping bag. Green eyes blinked and squinted. "Morning, Malfoy."

Muttering a reply, Draco fished a bottle of water out of his bag and drank a few large gulps, almost choking when his eyes met Salazar's. The Founder was grinning like a loon. They'd forgotten to put him back into the bag and he'd probably seen Draco drooling on Potter's shoulder all night long. Ugh.

"How times change," the portrait observed, and Draco narrowed his eyes. Potter was still looking for his glasses with the bleary expression of those who hate mornings. It was cute. Even his disastrous hair melted Draco's heart. He was so gone.

They packed the tent after a quick breakfast. They could stay for the rest of December and still have a myriad of places to visit, but they both agreed to go home because they didn't want to travel for too long with the Mind Compass in their luggage. So, with the melancholy associated with the end of any successful trip, they made their way back to Addis Ababa. Draco left Potter's side to buy a few gifts for his friends, remembering that he still didn't know what to give Mother.

While Harry disappeared into the sports store, Draco decided to take a closer look at the magical foci collection. He wasn't sure Mother would ever find any use for one, but she might enjoy the lore behind it, and it was better than yet another scarf or brooch. He spent a while staring at the more expensive stones set in tastefully designed jewellery, and could almost see the shopkeeper salivating, so he cleared his throat and used the Translatall to ask about them.

"They work like a wand core," the man explained with a toothy grin. "Some people find it easier to wear a ring with their stone and use their finger as a conduit, but really, it's all about intent. You don't need a gesture to cast a spell." He demonstrated this by summoning a disgruntled cat and making it float, without raising a hand. Then he showed the pendant he wore, a silver disk with five onyx beads cutting it in half. "By wearing this, my entire body is a conduit. You're a wand-bearer, aren't you?"

Draco nodded. "Would that cause any issue?"

"Anyone can learn. It takes time and power, but you do have a powerful aura. I see no problem in your future learning."

Tempting as it was to get one for himself, he admitted it'd be a present, which prompted the man to ask about her wand core and her ability to cast what the Translatall called a guardian. A Patronus, then. Evidently, not everyone used Latin.

"Her Patronus is a dragon." He tried to remember what her wand was, as she's gotten a new one after the war. A memory of a trip to a French wandmaker came to mind—vine and dragon heartstring.

The man's eyebrows rose. "I dare say she'd have no trouble at all, then. Opal, I should think." He gestured towards a selection of glittering stones, different from what Draco knew of opals. Some were red, bright green or blue, with many different patterns. He let out a breath as he found the perfect stone; it was a warm, golden orange, like a flame encased in a polished shell. The light reflecting on it still brought out a rainbow of other colours typical of opals, but the yellow and orange seemed to glow. It was a beauty.

He chose a wooden pendant that looked like delicate branches twisting around the stone to cradle it in an embrace. As the shopkeeper wrapped it in a protective fabric, he bit his lower lip, and breathed out, "What stone would you choose for someone with a holly and phoenix feather wand, who won the allegiance of another wand made of elder and thestral hair?"

The man's grin turned positively shark-like.

#

Neither Draco nor Potter ate before their international Portkey was due to leave; a blessing, as they arrived in London without retching all over the floor of the Ministry. Upon exiting the international Portkey office, Draco had grabbed Potter's arm and Apparated straight home, without realising that 1) Potter didn't live there and 2) his apartment was a warzone with clothes and books and trinkets everywhere. Too late, now. Short of Obliviating the prat, of course.

Draco was the kind of person who never invited anyone into his home unless it was cleaned and decluttered, and since he was such a messy tenant, he rarely had his friends over or, Merlin forbid, his mother. But he thought nothing of it when Harry stepped into the hallway for the first time and had to dodge a pile of shoes that Draco could've put on the shoe rack but didn't. No, all he did was look around with his mouth open.

"What, not what you expected?" Draco sneered and levitated his bags into a corner, then turned on the heater. His nose was about to fall off, and his hair hung in his eyes, wet and cold. Sweet, sweet London weather. He couldn't say he'd miss the heat of the Danakil desert, but today was a particularly icy morning to come back.

Potter shook his head and stared at a miniature golden bust that had chives instead of hair (it was Gilderoy Lockhart. A gift from Pansy). "I thought you'd be living in a Victorian penthouse. This looks too Muggle for you, but it suits you."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "I'm sorry if I offended your delicate sensibilities just because I happen to think modern Muggle design is a lot fancier than what wizarding aristocracy deems acceptable."

Honestly, the only problem with sleek, clean, minimalistic décor was that clutter was even more noticeable. Draco's brain whirred as he attempted to remember what Harry would find, and all he could do was frantically eye the place in search of underwear or sex toys that he may have left somewhere—like on the coffee table. While he did his best to conceal his growing panic, the tension in his shoulders gave him away.

Potter, who was surprisingly good at reading him, paused his scrutiny of Lockhart's bust. "Malfoy, are you okay?"

"Fine." What the fuck was that high-pitched voice? He cleared his throat and repeated, "Fine. I just—didn't have time to clean up."

He winced when Harry blinked slowly. He'd seen the state of Draco's hotel rooms over the past few months, or how messy he was in the tent, so Draco wasn't sure who he was trying to fool. Now, the thought of Potter stumbling upon a sex toy was threatening to give him heart palpitations. Not that they'd be in any way dirty—Draco wasn't insane—but sometimes, putting them back in their box under the bed was too much effort. "I'll be right back. Please wait a minute. You can remove your shoes."

Potter smirked, and it was infuriating, but at least he stayed in the same spot, busying himself by untying his shoelaces. Satisfied, Draco dashed into the nearest bathroom—a simple loo and sink—and replaced the empty roll of toilet paper. He then ran towards the warded Muggle room and made sure the protective spells were still functional, before inspecting the kitchen and finally, the living room. It wasn't that bad, really. Just a pile of laundry on the couch, old magazines piled up on a coffee table, and an empty vial of Pepper-Up Potion on the floor. Draco sighed and flicked his wand to take care of the mess. He was very much aware that as a wizard able to clean a room in a few seconds, leaving his belongings everywhere was more than laziness, it was some sort of spite against the household gods or some other rebellious action. With every item now back where they should be, he quickly locked his bedroom door, glanced at the veranda, and finally accepted that perhaps he'd been smart enough to hide his toys before going to Ethiopia. He'd never live through the shame if Potter saw Mr Cockzilla. It should be safe and snug in a drawer in the main bathroom.

"You can come in now, Potter."

The Prat-Who-Lived seemed almost shy. Draco gestured towards the couch. "Take a seat, I'll get us some tea. Are you cold?"

The sight of him sat on Draco's favourite, expensive furniture was enough to make him giddy. Harry gave him a soft smile. "I'm fine now, and tea would be great. Thanks."

Draco almost skipped all the way to the kitchen. He filled the kettle, chose a superior brand of Earl Grey and prepared it the way Harry liked it. Then he joined him on the couch and breathed out slowly, slouching like an undignified Gryffindor. He'd bought the most comfortable sofa he could find because he couldn't stand the austere furniture he'd grown up with—even the Slytherin dungeons lacked in comfort, every seat made to improve posture instead.

As much as he loved travelling, being home felt good. Potter took to his apartment like a fish to water, showing no sign of the restraint a visitor would, relaxing as if this were his own home. Wishful thinking.

"So," said Potter, breaking a silence that had been surprisingly comfortable and blowing on his tea to cool it down. "I'm starving; want to eat something?"

 _Why aren't you going home?_ Draco wondered. Did it feel natural to stay here? Not that he minded, but it piqued his curiosity. And of course, he was starving, they'd only had a small breakfast in the tent this morning. Looking outside at the rainy horizon, Draco struggled to wrap his head around the fact that they had been in Ethiopia thirty minutes ago. "I could eat." He glanced towards the kitchen. "Take-out? I'm afraid I don't have anything in my cupboards."

A wave of doubt struck him; no, surely he hadn't forgotten a cucumber at the bottom of the fridge. It may have been a magical fridge, but it wasn't built with a stasis charm, and he hadn't opened it in months. Whatever he may have left in there would be liquefied at best.

"Know anywhere that delivers via Floo?"

Draco scoffed. "They wouldn't deliver to me." They never did. He stood up and smoothed his tunic, then realised he was a bad host. "I'll Apparate there. Any preference?"

"I can come with you—"

"Potter, your tea will be cold by the time we come back." He drank his cup as if to make a point. "Savour it."

"Fine." Running a hand through his hair, Potter frowned, deep in thoughts, then smiled. "I'm in the mood for pizza."

Draco's stomach grumbled in agreement. "Great, I'll be right back." He grabbed his "Muggle World Only" shoulder-bag and a warm coat, aware that he was still dressed for East-African weather, and Apparated quietly to St. Mary's road in Ealing. There was no way he'd get subpar pizza from one of those overpriced, low-quality chains. He'd get authentic, wood-fired Italian goodness from the very best. The owners knew him, not as Draco Malfoy, ex-Pureblood supremacist, but as a regular customer who was polite and charming. As expected, they were delighted to see him again, a stark contrast with the judgemental reactions he still provoked in the wizarding world.

Twenty minutes later, he Apparated back home and found Harry in the kitchen, setting the table. Draco had to stop and gape for a second; Potter's presence wasn't incongruous, it felt like he belonged here. He had untied his shoulder-length hair and had changed into jeans and a black woolly sweater he must've had in his luggage.

His head snapped up, and he gave Draco a sheepish smile. "Hey. I hope I'm not overstepping any bounds there. I wanted to be useful."

"That' s—I appreciate it. Thank you." He strode into the kitchen, opened the boxes he was carrying and levitated each pizza into its respective plate, under a stasis charm so they'd stay hot. "If you want to serve us drinks, there's a 2001 Côtes-du-Rhône in the wine cabinet. I'll go change."

"Of course you have a wine cabinet, you posh git."

Draco let out a cackle and headed to his bedroom, adding "Grimmauld Place's cellar takes up the entire basement, Potty." Then he stood in front of his open wardrobe and wished he had the time to take a shower, putting on a thick robe after casting a freshening charm on his body. Somehow being a bit scruffy within his own apartment was a lot more annoying than it had been in the tent.

He hurried back to Potter's side as he uncorked the bottle. Noodle was exploring the kitchen tiles, tongue flicking in and out and wobbling when he found something of interest, and Harry translated his hisses. "He loves it here. The floor is warm."

"Ah, the joys of central heating." In Draco's imaginary future, Noodle would bask on those tiles every day, and Harry would fill their shared wine cabinet with low-quality beverages from Lidl. He chased those images away, but they were soon replaced by explicit ones as Harry moaned at his first bite of pizza. "That good, huh?"

"Oh, gods I've been eating trash pizza my entire life!"

"Happy to help." Draco fingered the edge of his glass, distracted, then dug in at his stomach's loud protest.

The wine bottle was empty when Potter asked how much it cost, but Draco couldn't remember. It wasn't what could be considered expensive, that much he knew. Potter seemed to think he had specialised knowledge about wine, but that wasn't true, he only followed Mother's instructions, and at Pureblood functions, he'd have pretended to be an expert. Potter didn't deserve to be lied to about something so trivial. He blurted out the shameful truth—that he only knew this wine would pair well with pizza because he'd tried it before with Blaise and Blaise didn't murder him on the spot—and was rewarded with a soft, tender gaze that made his neck flush. That gaze took on a wicked gleam soon after.

"Thank you for trusting me with your darkest secrets." Harry made a show of bowing, his glasses almost falling into his empty plate. "Who stocked your cabinet, then? I don't know shit about wine, but even I have heard of some of those."

"Many are from the Malfoy vaults or were gifted to me. The most expensive are Muggle, but there are some from my family vineyards in the same price range. We can open a bottle for Christmas."

Draco witnessed the slow realisation dawning on Potter, and he tapped his foot in anticipation. Maybe the pleasant buzz of alcohol was giving him wings.

"I—sometimes I forget we're both rich. Okay. Christmas. Come with me to Andi's, bring your mum if she wants to."

"You're not going to the Burrow?"

Harry smiled wryly. "Not if you're coming."

Draco's breath caught in his throat. His crush was out of control, and he had to do something soon, or he'd go insane.

#

The week before Christmas exhausted Draco more than the first few nights in the shitty Muggle tent in Iran; everyone wanted to see him, he still had some last-minute shopping to do, and Mother required his assistance to set up a temporary exhibition on magical plants. Draco headed to Hogwarts to speak with Longbottom and wrestled with an escaped baby Devil's Snare, then was invited to stay for the evening meal in the Great Hall when the Headmistress saw him. He didn't remember how, but he'd then gotten drunk with Hagrid, of all people, and woke up on the couch in Longbottom's quarters with the world's worst hangover.

Blaise was next to get his hooks into him and drag him to his house so Draco could see Matteo (Merlin, he'd grown so much!), and Draco barely had any time to breathe before Gringotts demanded to see him regarding the museum's funding.

He came home each evening to try to relax, but the Mind Compass bothered him, and he sunk into academic research until dawn two nights in a row. He wanted to ensure they weren't making a mistake by seeking it out, but as expected, the Compass wasn't mentioned anywhere. Draco ended up reading everything he could about similar objects, those affecting the brain and thought process. It brought back uncomfortable memories about the necklace he'd given to Katie Bell in sixth year. He needed a way to protect himself and Potter against that kind of magic because even Salazar didn't know if it could affect them without someone actively using it for that purpose. Its magic wasn't dark, after all, unlike every other artefact in those old, dusty books.

And in this whirlwind of activity and mind-numbing research, he still found the time to miss Potter.

Christmas came and went. Draco didn't care much for it, not anymore, but this year, Potter's presence created a warm glow in Draco's chest. There was something exceptional in the shine of his eyes, in the way he exuded pure joy all day long, and in his excitement over Teddy's glee. Potter was, in every sense of the word, a beautiful human being. It almost made Draco's resolve waver, but he resisted, and he didn't give him the piece of jewellery he'd bought in Ethiopia. The meaning of it would cause a misunderstanding. Draco would bid his time. Instead, he offered him a book on magical Greece because of Euphemia Potter's origins and melted into the hug Harry gave him in return.

Around midnight, when Teddy was asleep, and Mother went home to her grumpy husband, Draco asked Harry if he wanted to continue the celebrations. That was how they ended up drunk in Draco's living room, playing Exploding Snap and arguing about the colour of the murder birds from Addis Ababa.

So, it was a bleary-eyed Draco who discovered their next destination in the morning, when he happened to glance at the map stored in his half-full suitcase and noticed the brand new contours of another country.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it so far. With the ongoing real-world insanity, I have more time to write than usual, but I can't commit to any kind of posting schedule. My brain is either writing an entire novel in a few days or not a word for weeks. 
> 
> \-------------
> 
> I can be found on [Tumblr](https://penguinanimagus.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/FuzzyJawa) , come say hi!


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